


The Ghost and Major Sheppard

by Silvarbelle



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvarbelle/pseuds/Silvarbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 1900s and Major John Sheppard is a widower with a little girl and an urge to strike out on his own.  His wanderings take him, his daughter, and his housekeeper to Pugwash, Nova Scotia, where he's found the perfect house to rent.  Too bad it's already occupied and the resident is none-too-happy at having his privacy invaded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Mind is Made Up!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a re-working of the Gene Tierney, Rex Harrison film "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." Also, I wish to thank Cold-Creature and Crystallic Sky for their inestimable help in proof-reading this story. Couldn't have done it without ya, ladies! Any remaining mistakes are mine.

**The Commonwealth of Virginia, 1907**

 

“I do wish you’d reconsider, Johnny.”

“There’s nothing to reconsider, Eva. My mind is made up. Elizabeth’s dowry will keep for Anna. My pension as a veteran of the American armed forces and combat wounds is modest, but fleshed out nicely by the dividends from the Little Dry Creek gold run in Colorado. We can live quite cheaply on that.”

“You wouldn’t have to live cheaply at all – no matter where – if you’d return to your father on bended knee and beg his forgiveness!” Eva Weir said tartly.

Major John “Johnny” Sheppard, formerly of the United States Army, eyed his sister-in-law with a cool gaze.

“The Sheppards are none of your business,” he finally said, “and what passed between me and my father was long ago.”

She gave him an ugly glare; a dull flush of color touching the cheeks of her homely face before snapping at her mother, “Stop sniveling, Mother!”

Angelica Weir, mother of Eva and Elizabeth Weir, sat at the head of the small breakfast table in the Weir home. Contrary to custom, Sheppard had moved in when he’d married Elizabeth – having no home of his own already and the house more than large enough for the newly married couple and any children they’d have. Thomas Weir had been in ill health, so it had stood to reason that Johnny move in to help manage the household and provide a safe presence for the females – especially delicate Angelica, prone to weeping and wailing over the least little thing.

She sat sniffling and sobbing into her lace kerchief now upon hearing of Sheppard’s plans to move out and get a house of his own for himself and his daughter, Anna.

Sheppard felt a twinge of guilt at the sight. Angelica wasn’t simply putting on a show; she really was upset about John going away and taking her granddaughter with her. He offered a polite smile and said, “Now, Mother Weir, you shouldn’t think I’m not grateful. You and Thomas were both so very kind to me, taking me into your home; as welcome as a son joining you instead seeing me as a man taking your Elizabeth away. But Thomas has been gone for eight years; my Elizabeth for nearly a year, and I’ve my own life to live. You have yours. The two simply won’t mix.”

“That’s all well and good for you, but what are _we_ to do?” Eva demanded, her voice as sharp as her pointed chin.

“Whatever do you mean, Eva? Thomas’ Will provides well for you and your mother; better than anything I could do for you now.”

“Unless you petition your—“

“That subject is _closed_ , Eva,” John said, his voice as firm as steel. “I make less as a teacher of mathematics than Thomas has left for you and your mother.”

“But—“

“I’ve never had a life of my own,” Sheppard said, forcing his mouth into a charming smile. “My father had mine planned out for me; one that I didn’t want. So I ran away, joined the Army, and gave my country command of my life instead. Then, I married Elizabeth and became an extension of the Weir family, under Thomas’ hand. I’ve never had a life of my own. I’m entitled to one. I think I’ll go off and get one.”

“But _leaving_ us in the lurch as you do so!” Eva snarled.

“What lurch? You’re well-to-do financially. Everyone in this county and the surrounding counties knows the name of Weir. I daresay you’d have better luck attracting a husband with me gone,” John said brightly, and didn’t falter under the hateful stare she aimed his way.

“But… but what will I have to remind me of my dear Elizabeth?” Angelica sobbed, not noticing Eva’s posture stiffening further under the insult.

“Have you considered Anna?” Eva asked coldly a few moments later.

Sheppard lifted one eyebrow. “Yes, Eva, I should think so.”

“But are you willing to take responsibility for what might become of her?”

“Given that she’s _my_ daughter, Eva, I do believe I _ought_ to be responsible for her.”

“What do you mean by that?” Eva demanded.

“Only what I say,” Johnny replied, quickly becoming tired of the various histrionics of the Weir women. Still, he would remain civil for the sake of Elizabeth’s memory.

“You’re implying that I interfere with Anna. Don’t deny it, Johnny!” Eva stood up abruptly and glared down at him. “Don’t deny it, I say!”

“I’m not denying it,” Sheppard said, and smiled as if he kept company with angels.

Eva’s hands curled into fists and he knew that only the knowledge of what he’d do to her in retaliation kept her from striking at him.

“Please,” he entreated, “can’t we discuss this without quarreling? We’re upsetting Angelica.”

Eva sat down just as quickly as she’d stood when Angelica turned watery, pleading eyes upon her.

Those eyes then turned to John as Angelica warbled, “But, Johnny, I’m certain I don’t see how you can possibly manage away from us.”

“Mother Weir, I mentioned this already: my military pension and the shares from the gold run will keep myself, Anna, and Teyla quite cheaply and comfortably.”

Eva went pale and sucked in a sharp breath. “Do you mean you’re taking Teyla Emmagan away from us?”

Sheppard lifted an eyebrow again as he leaned back, hooking one arm behind the low back of the chair he sat in. “Teyla is a freewoman, Eva, no matter your opinion on human ownership as decreed by skin color – and has been since her birth in England. She has been with me and under my protection since we met in Cuba. I brought her here; I may take her with me if she agrees to go, though I can’t imagine she’d want to stay here where you’d clap her in irons and treat her like a thing instead of a person.”

“Of all the ungrateful—“

“As I’ve said: my mind is made up. Besides, surely you can’t be too unhappy with the loss of Teyla. Intelligent, charming, and a marvel at keeping things clean and organized she is, but her lack of cooking skill is rather off-putting. Why else do you employ a separate cook?”

Angelica sniffled and spoke up. “But, Johnny, wherever shall you go?”

Johnny smiled; this one small but real as he said, “By the seaside, I think. I’ve always liked the smell of saltwater and the sound of the waves. Elizabeth certainly loved it and Anna does, too.”

“Oh, _goody_ ,” Eva sneered.

Sheppard snorted. “Well, that’s all I have to say.”

“I should think you’ve said quite enough! Apparently, there’s nothing we can do, but when you realize your mistake and try to come _crawling back_ … _well!_ Do _not_ expect any encouragement from _me_.”

Sheppard smiled; an expression bright and patently false in its amiability. “I never do, Eva.”

He figured that if the U.S. Army could convert hatred to cannon powder, Eva could probably win any war the country engaged in for the next thousand years all by herself based on the glare she leveled on him in that moment.

Sheppard excused himself over the sound of Angelica’s weeping and headed into the kitchen through the discreet door set into one corner of the private parlor. Just past the door, he found Teyla and Anna lurking, giving him expectant smiles as Anna huddled against the beautiful black woman who hugged her shoulders protectively.

“Well, it’s done – as I’m sure you both heard,” he said, smirking at them.

Anna let out a cheer and began dancing about the kitchen while Teyla threw back her head with a grin and lifted her fists triumphantly towards the ceiling.

“’Tis a revolution and no mistake!” she crowed, her whiskey-brown eyes shining with pleasure.

“We’re in the proper state for one,” Johnny muttered, thinking of the many battles for freedom that had been fought on Virginia soil. “Come along, now: let’s get busy. I would like to be packed and on the way north before too long.”

“Aye, sir!” Teyla said, and then she took Anna’s hands as the child romped past, the two of them falling into a tilt-a-whirl dance of joy.

Sheppard snickered and went off to settle his affairs with the local schoolhouse.

 

*~*~*~*

 

The cart that had driven them into town from the ferry station several miles out was owned by one of the farmers in the Pugwash area of Nova Scotia. Upon arrival in Halifax, it had taken a three-hour train ride to Pugwash Junction and then the cart from a local resident to get to where Johnny Sheppard had decided to land his small family.

As they looked out over the cliff-dotted, inlet-coastal area, Sheppard smiled and took a deep breath of air.

“Isn’t Pugwash _marvelous_ , Teyla?” he asked, sighing with pleasure. When he got no reply, he glanced over and found her looking around with the expression on her face that indicated she would agree with him – no matter what.

“Are there other children here, Papa?” Anna asked, her tiny hand tucked into his larger one.

“I’m sure there are, Sweetheart,” Johnny replied, squeezing her hand. “It looks like a one-horse town, but there has to be more than this. I’d not drag you two out into the wilderness, you know.”

Teyla snorted. “You might – but never without making certain of our safety, Major Sheppard.”

He grinned. “As you say, Teyla. Now, then: why don’t we find the local eatery? You and Anna may take your time there while I speak with the realtor.”

It took very little time to find the local pub. Once he’d seen to the settlement of his housekeeper and his daughter, Sheppard asked for directions to the realtor. Ten minutes later, he walked through the door of the Real Estate Offices of Itchen, Boles & Kavanaugh and startled a mutton-chopped, bespectacled man clearly in the middle of his own lunch.

As the man stared at him intently with wide-eyes, John fidgeted and then touched his fingers to the brim of his Homburg hat as he tipped a bow towards the man. “I am terribly sorry for interrupting your meal, sir.”

The man stood, brushing at his facial whiskers and the napkin tucked against his chest. “Quite alright, sir. How may I help you?”

Johnny walked further into the small office. “Are you Mr. Itchen?”

“Mr. Itchen passed on some years ago,” the man replied; “may he rest in peace.”

“Mr. Boles?”

“Likewise.”

Sheppard smiled. “Then, you are Mr. Kavanaugh.”

“Junior,” the man corrected gently with a smile, and tipped a small bow towards him.

Sheppard held out his hand and found it clasped quickly. “I am Major John Sheppard, retired; formerly of Virginia.”

“Sir! It is my pleasure to greet you,” Mr. Kavanaugh said, smiling gaily.

“The same,” Sheppard replied. “Please, sit down; eat. I promise: I won’t take offense.”

“No, I daresay you wouldn’t. Soldiers learn to eat when they may, do they not?” Mr. Kavanaugh asked, reseating himself and taking a bite of roast beef.

“Indeed, Mr. Kavanaugh.” Sheppard seated himself at one end of the desk, perpendicular to the other man as Kavanaugh took a stack of papers out of a drawer.

“Now, then, you are desirous of renting a house,” Kavanaugh said. At Johnny’s nod, he picked up the first paper and said, “Here we are; one seaside villa.”

He read down the various rooms and fixtures and settings, but Sheppard had to decline. Financially comfortable though he was, he simply couldn’t afford $80 per month in rent.

Understanding, Kavanaugh nodded and set the paper aside. He picked up the next, but grimaced and set it aside unread. He picked up the third and began to read from the list, but Sheppard ignored him to read the discarded paper for himself. He’d long ago learned that doing for himself prevented others from doing him wrong.

Within moments, he interrupted Kavanaugh. “This one: Gull Cottage.”

Startled by the interruption, Kavanaugh turned to face the younger man. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“This house: Gull Cottage.” Sheppard turned to grin at the realtor. “This is _exactly_ the type of home I am looking to rent.”

Taking the paper from Johnny’s hands, Kavanaugh said nervously, “Gull Cottage? Oh, no – no, no, no. It shan’t suit you at all.”

He began reading the listing for a place called Laburnum Mount again, but Sheppard picked up the listing for Gull Cottage to once again read through the fixtures.

“Only fifty-two dollars,” he murmured, interrupting Mr. Kavanaugh. “That’s really very little for a fully furnished house.”

“It’s a _ridiculous_ price for a fully furnished house!” Kavanaugh snapped, irritated at the interruption.

Sheppard sighed. “I suppose there’s something wrong with it.” He slanted a coy look at the other man. “Is it the drains?”

“Major Sheppard,” Kavanaugh began, his voice cold with insult, “when this agency represents a house, you may be assured that there is _nothing_ wrong with the drains!”

Johnny sat back in his chair and offered a charming smile. “Then, why shouldn’t it suit me?”

Kavanaugh took the paper from Johnny’s hands again and said stiffly, “My dear Major Sheppard: allow _me_ to be the judge of _that_.”

Sheppard’s smile lessened a bit and he lowered his eyelashes to a sultry level as he teased, “But you hardly know me, Mr. Kavanaugh.”

The realtor froze in his seat for a few moments. Then, wide-eyed, he let his gaze rest on Johnny and licked his lips.

Sheppard sat up a little straighter and allowed a hard tone to enter his voice. “As I am the one who shall be paying the rent money, should it not be _my_ decision as to what will suit me?”

Kavanaugh gave a weary sigh. “You’ll be wasting your time!”

“It’s my time to waste,” Johnny drawled, his eyes still narrowed, but no longer coy. “Let me be frank with you, Mr. Kavanaugh: I have served my country in the Spanish-American War. I have suffered the pain of bullets and the indignity of Yellow Fever. I have given and I have given. Now, I am taking: my time chief amid that campaign.”

Seeing the realtor frown, Johnny stood up; his black traveling cape fell down around his lean body neatly.

“There are other realty offices in Pugwash,” he murmured. “Perhaps _they_ have Gull Cottage listed.”

Kavanaugh made a sound of displeasure. Standing, he pulled off the napkin he wore and tossed it to the desk before he followed Johnny over to the door and prevented him from opening it.

“Very well, sir, if you insist,” he said firmly. “I do honestly believe Gull Cottage will not suit you, but if you wish to see it… I shall take you to it in my motorcar.”

Sheppard smiled, pleased to have the upper hand. “Thank you, Mr. Kavanaugh. That’s quite kind of you.”

He preceded the realtor out the door, pleased with having won the battle – and intent on winning the war.

 

*~*~*

 

An hour or so later, they drove up a long winding dirt road, hundreds of feet above sea level near the edge of a cliff that stretched along a fantastic sandy beach below.

Slowly, Sheppard climbed out of the automobile. He looked with pleasure upon the white, two-story house. Though it was covered in ivy, the greenery wasn't as widespread as it could have been. It did not cover the house entirely, which indicated some kind of maintenance. The yard was only a little overgrown, too, which also indicated upkeep – sporadic, to be certain, but upkeep nonetheless.

He smiled when he saw the gently rounded balcony that spread from a bank of windows and overlooked the cliff. It was clearly meant for sea-and-stargazing. In fact, the house was riddled with plenty of windows, indicating a love of natural light and sky that pleased Johnny immensely.

Without waiting for Kavanaugh, he walked up the weedy path toward the front door of the house.

“Major Sheppard!” Kavanaugh called from behind him, and he turned to see the other man standing halfway between himself and the motorcar. He lifted a brow and waited.

“It… oh, really, it is only a short drive from here to Laburnum Mount,” Kavanaugh said, his hands twisting together in a sign of nervousness.

Sheppard gestured casually toward the door behind him. “I want to see the inside.”

Kavanaugh went a trifle more pale. “The… inside?”

Johnny frowned. “Yes, of course. I’ll not rent it sight unseen. Whatever is it the matter?”

Kavanaugh closed his eyes and shook his head for a moment. Then, he opened his eyes and strode forward. “Very well, if you insist.”

Inside, Sheppard looked around and around, frowning at the color scheme until he realized he was looking at the walls and fixtures covered by a heavy film of graying dust. He also felt… strange; as if something were _watching_ him, studying him and waiting for him to do something.

He blew on the head of a banister railing that formed the stairs through the central part of the house. A vivid cloud of dust blew off.

“Dusty in here,” he murmured.

“The house has, largely, stood empty for twenty years,” Kavanaugh said, his voice tight with nervousness. “The living area is here.” He gestured to closed double doors. “The bedrooms are upstairs, the kitchen just through here, and the dining opposite…”

Intrigued, Sheppard went to the doors that closed off the living area and opened one just a crack. He froze where he stood when sunlight from a high, small window illuminated the scowling face of a blue-eyed man with a receding hairline. He waited… but the man said nothing and, in only a few moments, Johnny sighed as he realized his mistake. Opening the door further allowed light to fill the room and the large portrait was thus illuminated.

“Yes, of course,” Johnny murmured, walking across the room to look at the portrait. “A painting. For a moment, I thought…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he looked his fill of the portrait’s subject. The man had short, brown hair with a high widow’s peak. The skill of the painter made it seem as though that hair was soft as mink. A wide, generous mouth slanted at the left corner and vivacious blue eyes stared out at the viewer from a serious, somewhat pompous face. The body was tallish; compact with broad shoulders and lean hips, strong thighs, and hands that hinted at frenetic motion even while still. Everything about the portrait’s subject indicated a need to move, to do something, to explore, to _know_.

Sheppard figured he would like the man quite a bit if he ever met him. “Who is this?”

Kavanaugh’s voice spoke from behind his right shoulder. “The former owner: Doctor Meredith R. McKay.”

John’s eyebrows lifted. “Meredith? He doesn’t look a thing like a ‘Meredith’.”

“A family name, so I am led to understand. The R stands for Rodney.”

“Ah; much more like it.”

“Yes, well.”

“Doctor, you say?” Johnny prompted.

“Of science, not medicine,” Kavanaugh replied. “Doctor McKay preferred the stars to anything living; science and the unknown to anything in the here and now.”

“Mmmm. That explains the eccentric collection, yet functional furnishing of the house.” Johnny smiled. “I quite like it.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Kavanaugh muttered. “So much space; so much of it wasted with eccentricity.”

“Oh, I don’t agree,” Sheppard replied, grinning. “This house… it’s so very… I haven’t the words to describe it adequately. All I know is that I quite like it.”

“Major Sheppard, I must beg you to not be quite so quick to judge,” Kavanaugh pled. “This house will _not_ suit you at _all_.”

“Oh, but it _does_ ,” Johnny murmured, smiling as he looked around. “To the marrow of my bones, I know it does.” He walked to the double doors. “I should like to see the rest of the house, now.”

He ignored the protesting sigh he heard behind him and led the way out of the living room and toward the kitchen area.

He found the brick-and-slate kitchen that let out into the backyard pleasingly functional. He could see himself and Teyla restoring the place to warm functionality, the pair of them rubbing linseed oil into the bricks until the place shone. He tested the water faucets, pleased when clean and clear water gushed forth with no problems and no horrid thunk-and-squeal that would signify damaged pipes. He turned—

—and slammed to a halt at the sight of overturned cutlery and dishes lying on the wood-block table only a few feet away. The food had long since desiccated, the tea in the side-slanted cup evaporated. Everything was coated in dust, of course.

“What…? Mr. Kavanaugh, I thought you said the house had stood empty!” Sheppard said, incensed at possibly having been lied to.

“I said it has _largely_ stood empty. A charwoman was here a few months ago.”

Sheppard eyed the dishes dubiously. “She must have left in a frightful hurry.”

“That she did.”

“Did she say why?”

Kavanaugh wouldn’t look at him. “She said nothing to me. She returned the key to the office whilst I was out.”

Johnny frowned, unease skirling up his spine. “Hmmm.”

Kavanaugh sighed. “Major Sheppard, I must protest. This house—“

“’Won’t suit me’ – you’ve said. I still say it will. I would like to see the upstairs, now.”

“The… upstairs?” Kavanaugh whispered, stumbling over the words.

“Yes.” The dread in Kavanaugh’s voice and the fact that he went a bit paler made Johnny tense. What on Earth was going on here that a simple, dusty house was setting the man so on edge?

Nevertheless, Kavanaugh led the way up the dusty stairs and straight to the Master Bedroom.

Inside, Johnny looked around and fell instantly and irrevocably in love. The large room contained a small chaise lounge, a comfortable arm chair, a fireplace, a luxurious bed, and the balcony he’d seen from the yard outside. In the middle of that bank of windows rested a large and clearly expensive telescope that did nothing to detract from the view.

The other item just beyond the windows, however, did.

“What a hideous tree,” Johnny muttered disdainfully. “What on Earth is a Monkey Puzzle tree doing this far north?”

Kavanaugh came to stand beside him. “You know what this tree is?”

“I had occasion to learn of it while serving in the Army,” was all Johnny would say about it.

“Ah. I had wondered. It isn’t as though many of these trees are found in Virginia, from what I understand.”

“Correct.”

Kavanaugh sighed and shook his head. “I do beg your pardon, Major Sheppard, but what is a man from Virginia doing this far up north – in a different country, if not continent?”

“A fellow teacher at the school I used to teach at vacationed up this way,” Johnny said, trying to peer past the limbs of the Monkey Puzzle tree. “He described the area in such detail that I fell half-in-love based on his words alone. When I wished to make my own way, it is this way I decided I would go.” He shook his head and turned away. “Another decision is that I shall have that thing chopped down. It reminds me of unpleasant things.”

He turned to go but stopped in his tracks when he heard an irritated snarl. Slowly, he turned back to Kavanaugh, who remained looking out the window. “Did you say something, Mr. Kavanaugh?”

Turning, Kavanaugh looked at him. Calmly, a trifle gravely, the man said, “No, sir, I did not.”

Sheppard went back to inspect the telescope while Kavanaugh walked past him toward the door. He finally realized what niggling detail had caught his attention concerning the thing. He swiped his finger along it and smirked at the lack of any gray on the black of his glove.

“That’s what it is,” he murmured. “You’re clean!”

“I beg your pardon, Major Sheppard…?”

“Not you, Mr. Kavanaugh; the telescope. Out of this entire house, it’s the telescope that is clean.”

That was when malicious laughter rippled with a fine echo through the air. Johnny froze for a moment, and then asked, “Mr. Kavanaugh? Did you laugh?”

The laughter came again, louder, meaner. Sheppard turned – only to find Kavanaugh bolting from the room in terror, the bedroom door slamming shut behind him. Every hair on Johnny Sheppard’s arms and head rose straight up as the laughter echoed all around him, louder and louder and louder.

Gritting his teeth, Sheppard strode to the bedroom door. He threw it open and then hurried out into the hall, down the stairs, and through the front door where Kavanaugh stood waiting, white-lipped and wide-eyed with fright.

As soon as they were outside and Kavanaugh had shut and locked the door, the laughter stopped.

John moved to where he could look up at the balcony windows. Squinting his eyes, he saw when the curtain relaxed back into position as if held by someone – only no one was there.

Kavanaugh stormed over to his side. “You _would_ come! I didn’t want to show it to you, but oh, no – no! You _had_ to see it!”

A slow smile spread across Johnny’s face. “ _Haunted_ … how perfectly _fascinating!_ ”

“Fascinating!” The word was a sibilant hiss coming from Kavanaugh. “I suppose for _some_ people it might be fascinating, but this house is driving me to drink! To _drink!_ ” Kavanaugh turned in a frustrated circle. “Four times I have rented this place and _four times_ the tenants have left within twenty-four hours! Gull Cottage’s retainer, Doctor McKay’s sister… I have written to her, cabled her, _begging_ her to release me! But she merely replies: ‘Rely on you’. I do not _want_ to be relied upon! I never want to see this house again! I wish Doctor McKay had lived to be one-hundred! No… rather, I wish he _had never been born_.”

Taken aback by the other man’s vehemence, all Sheppard could think to say was, “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Kavanaugh.”

“Hmph!” Kavanaugh sneered. “At least now you know _why_ Gull Cottage will not suit you!”

Sheppard turned back to look at the house. He felt not disappointed, but more like he was _wanted_. He felt as though he was needed there at Gull Cottage; that if he turned away now, he’d be leaving a man behind.

Johnny Sheppard never left a man behind

“Why does he haunt?” he asked, halting Kavanaugh’s retreat in only a few steps. “Was he murdered?” The thought of the man with the beautiful blue eyes and the slanted mouth coming to a violent, undeserved end made Sheppard’s guts cold.

“Hardly, though it shouldn’t be a surprise if he had been,” Kavanaugh snapped. “McKay was a thoroughly unpleasant man. He was arrogant, supercilious… utterly disdainful of anyone and everything that wasn’t _him_. He fancied himself the most intelligent man alive and God help those of us who could not keep up with him – which, according to him, was _everyone_.”

“You knew him, then?”

“Yes, to my everlasting displeasure,” Kavanaugh grumbled. “He thought himself so great – but he wasn’t. He surely wasn’t.”

“So he was killed?”

“No, Major – he committed suicide.”

Johnny steeled himself against a flinch. He looked up at the balcony windows again and felt despair hurt him. It was odd. He’d seen actual friends take their own lives and it hadn’t made him as sad as he did now, mourning for a stranger’s ghost.

“I wonder why?” he pondered aloud.

“To save someone the trouble of assassinating him, no doubt,” Kavanaugh sniped peevishly. He turned and led the way back to the motorcar. He cranked the engine handle, providing electricity for the motor to start, and then reached in for the lap blanket that would keep their legs from freezing and unfolded it. “Come; we’ll go to Laburnum Mount.”

Sheppard followed him to the car, but paused and looked back.

Once again, the curtain by the balcony window fell back into place – almost as if someone on the other side were afraid he might be able to see who it was.

“Major Sheppard.”

Johnny ignored the sound of his name being called; stood and gazed upon the house, mulling thoughts in his mind.

“Major Sheppard!”

The imperious tone in Kavanaugh’s voice spurred Johnny to action. With a wide smile, he turned to the realtor.

“You’ll think me utterly foolish, Mr. Kavanaugh,” he said, “but I’ve decided I shall take Gull Cottage.” As Kavanaugh’s face paled, Johnny continued. “After all: if everyone rushes off at the least little sound, why, of course the house shall gain a bad reputation. It is too ridiculous, really, in the twentieth-century, to lay the blame at the feet of apparitional nonsense.”

Kavanaugh sputtered and gestured at the house. “You – but – you heard him _laugh!_ ”

“I heard what _might_ have been a laugh,” Johnny replied archly. “Then again, might easily have been wind roaring down through the chimney. It is a very powerful wind here on the cliff.”

Kavanaugh swelled with outrage. “If I may say so, Major Sheppard: _fiddlesticks!_ ”

Johnny lifted an eyebrow at what the other man clearly considered to be swearing. He smiled, all warmth and honey as he said, “I _want_ Gull Cottage.”

“In my opinion, sir, you are the most obstinate man I have ever met!”

Johnny’s smile went wide and real. “Truly? _Thank_ you, Mr. Kavanaugh! I have always wanted to be considered ‘obstinate’!”

Thrown off-stride by that reply, Kavanaugh sputtered for a few moments. However, he took note of the statement. He tallied that with the fact that a young man held the rank of Major, had fought in the Spanish-American war, had survived bullets and illness… and, having faced the merest manifestation of McKay’s ghost, was still determined to take the place.

“Very well, Major Sheppard,” Kavanaugh said, and the triumphant smile on Sheppard’s face did nothing to detract from the man’s clean-shaven loveliness. As Sheppard settled himself in the car, Kavanaugh took the opportunity to tuck the lap blanket around the younger man’s legs, his touch lingering. “On the proviso that I disclaim _all_ responsibility for what may happen: you shall have Gull Cottage.”

Johnny Sheppard’s delighted – though mangled-sounding – laugh echoed over the cliff, even above the chugging mutter of the motorcar’s engine.

 

*~*~*~*


	2. I Know You're Here!

“Don’t you come in here!”

Johnny looked up at Teyla’s threatening command. He lifted the hot iron away from the shirt on the board before him and watched Teyla pause in scrubbing the slate floor to snarl at Jack, their new Schnauzer-mix mutt. Anna had wanted a dog and had chosen Jack from a litter of free puppies by a Schnauzer mother and a God-knew-what-else father before they’d left Virginia for good. _Johnny_ had been the one to name the dog, however. He hadn’t thought Sir Doozie Fido Magnolia Pumpernickel had been a good name for the poor critter.

Jack, being a dog and being _Jack_ , promptly took Teyla’s command to stay out as an invitation to come in and scurried through the kitchen and out into the main hallway.

“Bringing your muddy feet through my nice clean kitchen?” Teyla snapped, tossing her rag into the soap bucket. “Landlubber!”

Johnny bit back a smile. He could understand Teyla’s temper. The two of them had been working flat-out on cleaning Gull Cottage for the last two weeks while slowly moving their things into the house, merging their items with the already existing décor and paraphernalia that came with the place. Teyla had suggested tossing the random pieces of scientific equipment or academic books, but Sheppard had vetoed that option. Haunted or not, it didn’t feel right to come into a house that they were merely renting and toss the place over as if anything that had come before didn’t matter.

In point of fact, the odd mish-mash of paraphernalia scattered around the house intrigued him – especially the maps. They were nearly forty years old, which meant they were missing information supplied by cartographers since McKay had died. But the notes in the margins – “Absentis Urbs”, “Proclarus Taonas”, “Porta Astrum”, and “Hostilis Infinitas Ieiunium” – captured his imagination. His Latin was far too rusty, but it seemed like the notes mentioned a missing city, something on fire… something about stars… and an eternally hostile something. Spiky handwriting indicated that the searcher was getting closer to discovering “The City,” whatever that was.

Besides the maps, there were other intriguing things. There were items clearly from Egypt; old-old things that carried a subtle scent of mustiness and sand – or maybe that was all Johnny’s imagination. There were items from the European continent; English, French, Spanish, and Russian. There were small tablets with squiggled lines that meant nothing to him but were in a clear pattern of communication. The oddest thing he’d found had been a green broach of some sort. He’d thought it was perhaps made of emerald, but when he’d touched it, he’d as quickly put it down. He’d thought he’d felt… something; a pressure on his mind as if he’d heard someone speak and his mind was attempting to translate it. There had been an almost electric tingle against his hand, as if a small lightning strike had been ready to gather there, but had lacked the power to do so.

Johnny had put it aside as a symptom of being overly tired… but he’d not handled the thing again.

Now, he watched as Teyla got to her feet with a grunt and then picked up the soap bucket. She hefted it over to the large, stone basin sink and poured the soap and dirty water down the drain. Sighing, she set the bucket into the sink, then put her hands to her lower back and arched, cracking her spine out of the ache that had been forming. Sheppard winced on her behalf and wished she’d let him help with the scrubbing, but she’d threatened to do something to him with a broom that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

Her back fixed, she went to inspect the floor where Jack had walked. She made a sound of satisfaction and bent to swipe the floor with easy flicks of a rag; the mud coming up without difficulty.

Straightening, she tossed the rag across the kitchen and into the sink before bracing her hands on her hips. “There! Shipshape in Bristol fashion!”

Johnny blinked. After a moment, he leaned on the board, bracing himself on his forearms and crossing his wrists one over the other. “What did you say, Teyla?”

She turned to him with an arched eyebrow. “I said…” She trailed off, scowling in confusion. “What _did_ I say?”

“’Shipshape in Bristol fashion’,” Johnny repeated with a smirk. “I’ve never heard that expression out of you before.”

“Hmmm. I declare it a spontaneous emission brought on by the sea air,” Teyla replied, laughing at his amused snort.

“Most likely,” Johnny agreed, “though it’s hardly a surprise you should mention Bristol, you Islander.”

She gave him a haughty look. “I speak better English than many of you Colonial louts that have butchered the Mother Tongue.”

“If’n ya say so,” Johnny drawled, deliberately slurring the syllables.

Teyla shook a small fist at him playfully before she straightened her arms to roll down the sleeves of her dress. She fastened the cuffs as she said, “Alright, Major Sheppard – I’ll have that ironing, if you please.”

“But I’ve nearly finished!” Johnny protested. “You know I never leave holes or burns, Teyla.”

“Your stint in the Army taught you many useful skills,” she agreed, “but you’ve done enough menial labor for today. I know your side is paining you today.”

Sheppard tucked his hand along his right ribcage, his palm fitting over the scar where a Spaniard’s musket ball had torn into him. Mostly rainy and cold days caused his various scars to ache, but some days for no reason he could discern, the scars twanged all on their own.

“Go on,” Teyla urged, shooing him away from the ironing board. She gathered up the laundered and ironed shirts he’d already finished. “Go upstairs and settle in for a good, long nap.”

She tucked her arm through his and led him out of the kitchen, toward the stairs. Sheppard didn’t bother arguing. He really _was_ tired. Ever since his stint in the war a few years back, when he’d been shot five times and contracted the Yellow Fever, he tired more easily than men twice his age.

The two of them walked up the stairs arm-in-arm, heading for the master bedroom.

“I feel so useless, Teyla,” he complained. “Here I am, barely halfway through life, and what have I to show for it but a map of scars and a tendency to fall asleep in my soup?”

Teyla chuckled. “I know what _I’ve_ done, alright: brewed enough tea to drown a hippopotamus and kept the name Emmagan as fair as the day it was given to me.”

“You’ve led a useful life, Teyla,” Johnny argued. “I’ve run away from home, nearly gotten myself killed trying to save already dead men, and then took sick on top of it all. I’ve bounced from unpolished collegiate to soldier to teacher to… whatever I’m to be, now. I’ve done nothing, really, worth noting.”

“What about Miss Anna? I suppose _she’s_ nothing?”

Johnny smiled as he thought of his daughter. “Oh, Lord no! I can’t take any credit for her; she just happened.”

They entered the bedroom and found Jack curled up on the settee atop the afghan lying folded on it. Teyla moved to fold and put away Sheppard’s clothing while Johnny went to close the balcony door against the chill spring breeze coming in. He hissed when his finger slipped on the latch, tearing a groove in one finger.

“You’ve hurt yourself?” Teyla called out, and started toward him. “Here, let me see.”

“Nonsense,” Johnny said, but did so with a smile. “I’m hardly a shrinking violet headed for a fit of the vapors. It’s just a scrape.”

Teyla snorted. “Have it your way, Major.”

“Thank you, I shall.” He covered his mouth to hide a yawn. “But, you are correct – as usual. I’m tired; a nap sounds good.”

He removed the lightweight suit coat he’d worn over a simple shirt with no tie or vest. He loved that, in the privacy of his own home with only Anna and Teyla for company, he didn’t need to get dressed to impress.

He tossed the suit coat onto the settee and then settled himself in the big, comfy wingback chair set near the fireplace. He relaxed with a sigh and let his head tip to the side as he closed his eyes.

“I most humbly beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” he heard Teyla murmur, and then the grumpy dog-mutterings from Jack as he was lifted up off of the afghan.

The muffled snap of the blanket being shook out reached Johnny’s ears and he opened his eyes in time to see Teyla bend to tuck the afghan over his lap and around his legs.

“There,” she murmured, “this will keep you nice and warm.”

Sheppard grinned fondly at her. “Thank you, Teyla; you’re an angel.”

“I haven’t noticed any wings sprouting as yet,” she teased, reaching to ruffle his hair gently before smoothing the cowlicks down for a brief moment. She then moved away to collect the basket filled with dirty clothes set near the bed.

“I’ll call you in plenty of time for tea,” she promised as she went out the bedroom door.

Sheppard chuckled. “How many times must I remind you, Teyla? On this continent, we call it _supper_.”

“Americans,” he heard her mutter disparagingly before the door shut.

Johnny snickered, and then settled himself more comfortably in the chair. He grunted when Jack decided to join him, jumping up onto his lap and turning in a circle before flopping into the space between Sheppard's left thigh and the side of the chair. Johnny sighed and ruffled the dog's fur affectionately. The mutt spent more time with him than Anna, it seemed. Yawning, he settled himself more comfortably and fell asleep between one breath and the next.

He never noticed one of the balcony doors opening slowly on its own, nor heard Jack's low growling as the dog tracked the unexpected visitor. The silent, glowering figure that appeared in the room walked over to stand in front of the chair that held the sleeping man, bending down to stare at him with intense scrutiny.

 

*~*~*

 

An hour later, Johnny woke from his nap all on his own, shivering with cold. As the ship's clock on the mantle chimed the time, he found that dusk was falling and the balcony door was banging against the wall from the strength of the breeze blowing through.

Struggling up from the chair, ignoring Jack's whining bark at being jostled awake, Johnny went to close the balcony door. He looked at it for a long moment, and then down at his finger where a faint pink scratch line still resided.

Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He stiffened and the hairs on the back of his neck and along his arms rose up as the bedroom door slowly opened.

When Teyla stuck her head around the door's edge a moment later, Sheppard sighed in relief and grinned. "It's you."

"I crept up, not wanting to wake you if you were still asleep," she explained. "You need as much rest as you can get." She came further into the room, scooped Jack up, and put him on the floor so she could fold the afghan and put it on the settee. "Tea is ready. There's plenty of it, given both of our appetites." Bending, she scooped a sleepy, yawning Jack into her arms and scritched his ears. "Come along, pup; I've a nice bit of fresh fish for you."

Jack wagged his tail and licked her hand. He might not have understood the words – Johnny had suspicions on occasion that the dog was smarter than most people he'd met – but he certainly understood affection.

"Teyla..." he murmured, following her to the door. She turned to face him with an inquisitive expression. "I... well; I had the most curious dream. Did I shut the window before I went to sleep?"

"You did," Teyla agreed. "You scraped your finger, too – don't you remember?" Glancing at the closed balcony door, she shrugged. "It's shut now, aye?"

As the housekeeper left the room, Jack tucked against her hip, Johnny glanced back at the door and muttered, "Yes... it's shut now."

He followed his friend downstairs, unable to dispel growing suspicions that he wasn't as alone as he seemed.

 

*~*~*

 

Johnny smiled down at his daughter as he tucked Anna beneath several warm quilts. A gale had blown in with the strong breeze, bringing with it a chill to the air that he didn't want her catching cold from. He ruffled her chestnut hair and she giggled, snuggling down. She gave him an impish smile of delight that looked so much like Elizabeth's that for a moment, his breath was taken away.

"Sleep well, Sweetheart," he murmured, smoothing her hair back.

"Goodnight, Papa," she said, and reached out to pull Jack closer against her, tucking a corner of one of her quilts over the dog. "Can you hear the sea outside? I love the sound of it, Papa – and so does Jack."

Johnny had his doubts about the dog's love of the sea, but he knew well of Jack's love of fish. Had the animal opposable thumbs, he might well have found Jack down at some watering hole with a fishing pole and a bucket of bait.

Still, he replied, "And so do I!" It wasn't even a little white lie; he really did like the sound of the waves and the smell of the sea air. It was one of the reasons he'd wanted to settle on the shore.

Kissing Anna goodnight, he lowered the gaslight in her room and let himself out. At the top of the stairs, he found Teyla coming up, a candleholder with a single candle in each hand. She gave him one of them as she said, "I put hot water bottles on the kitchen table, Major, and the kettle's on the stove."

Sheppard nodded tiredly. "Thank you, Teyla. Go on and get to bed. We've more cleaning to do tomorrow."

She sighed. "Oh, don't I know it, Major; don't I know it." She smiled at him, though. "Not that I mind. It feels good to restore cleanliness to this neat little house."

"That it does. Goodnight, Teyla."

"Goodnight, Major." She went down the hall toward her room, but paused at the gas lamp that provided illumination for the hallway. "Should I leave this on?"

Johnny lifted the candleholder in his right hand. "No; this'll do nicely."

He waited for her to turn down the gaslight and make her way into her room before descending the stairs, heading for the warm, well-lit kitchen.

Once inside, he blew out the candle he carried. The lamp in the kitchen was still lit, so there was no need to burn the candlewick as well. Going to the stove, he took up a match and struck it on the rough patch for match igniting while twisting the gas knob for the burner he wanted.

But the match extinguished before he could get the burner lit.

He tried again – the same thing happened.

He tried again – and, again, the match extinguished. This time, he felt a stripe of cold across the flesh of his fingers.

Straightening, his heart pounding, Johnny slowly turned to survey the kitchen. He scanned every nook and cranny with his gaze, but he was—

The gas lamp went out in a hurry. Even as Johnny whirled to stare at it, the windows over the sink crashed open on their hinges, allowing the blustering wind outside to bring torrents of rain and thunder into the kitchen.

Shouting, Johnny leaped across the kitchen. Squeezing his eyes shut against the wind and rain, he blindly battled the windows closed against the harsh breeze. Lightning flared bright against his eyelids and he clenched his teeth, wondering if he was about to be struck in his own home. He wasn't, though, and he managed to get the windows slammed shut and latched. He stepped back, panting, and waited to see if they would _stay_ closed. Snorting, he nodded, and went to the table where he'd placed the candlestick, taking the matchbox with him.

Only the match extinguished before it got anywhere _near_ the wick.

Irritated, Johnny set his hands on the table and snapped, "I know you're here."

Nothing happened.

Feeling foolish, he nevertheless said again, "I said: I _know_ you're _here_." He waited; still nothing. "What's wrong, McKay? Are you _afraid_ to speak up? Is _that_ all you're good for: humble parlor tricks? You'll have to do much better than a few chuckles and turning the lights off if you wish _me_ to take fright." His lip curled in disdain. "If your puerile antics are finished, I'll thank you _not_ to interfere while I boil some water for my hot water bottle – unless you secretly long for company in your miserable existence and are trying to make me catch my death of cold."

Feeling better for having made a stand, even if it was against pure superstitious nonsense, Johnny once again picked up the matchbox and extracted a match for lighting.

Only to freeze when a mean voice sneered out of the darkness: " _Light_ the candle."

Johnny closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Go ahead," the voice continued; "light it."

"How _can_ I when you keep blowing out the match?" Johnny challenged.

The voice roared at him with nearly the same force as the gale outside. "Light the _blasted_ candle!"

Scowling, insulted to be yelled at by a stranger – and a mostly dead one, at that – Johnny quickly struck the match and lit the candlewick. Flame burned bright and true atop the wick and he quickly picked up the candleholder to direct the little light towards the corner where the voice had come from.

Doctor Meredith R. McKay's scowling face appeared out of the darkness. Blue eyes burned as if lit with flame themselves and Johnny felt like he'd been sucker-punched as his breath was stolen away.

"Well?" McKay barked, irritated when Sheppard said nothing at his appearance.

Johnny's eyes took in the stocky frame that stood a scant half-inch shorter than himself. Broad shoulders led down to a barrel chest and from there to trim hips and thighs, dressed in dark gray trousers. A white shirt, a blue Ascot tie around the collar, and a black vest beneath the suit coat made up the rest of the ensemble. Except for the color of the clothing, the man looked as if he'd just stepped out of his portrait: his crooked mouth slanted into an austere scowl of haughtiness; his light brown hair brushed back from a high widow's peak.

 _Oh, God,_ Sheppard thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "You'll have to forgive me if I take a moment to get accustomed to you."

"You _called_ for me," the ghost challenged. "You said my name and _challenged_ me in my own home."

Johnny licked his lips, took a breath, and said, "Then... you really are... him – McKay."

" _Obviously_. Or do you suppose some other ghost decided to play a distasteful joke on the both of us by wearing _my_ face to _your_ haunting?"

Sheppard ducked his head for a moment to hide his smile. Kavanaugh had mentioned the mean attitude, but he'd failed to declare McKay's amusing wit. Then again, Kavanaugh didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor.

Lifting his head, Johnny looked directly at the ghost and said, "We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, Doctor McKay. My name is Major John Sheppard; 'Johnny' to my friends."

"Don't expect you'll hear that name from _me_ , Major."

"I... fair enough. That being said, I'd like to apologize. I'm sorry I called you names; 'puerile', and so on. I... I didn't really believe in you, else I wouldn't have. That must have been embarrassing to you."

McKay snorted. "I've been called worse and by better men than you."

Johnny frowned, offended. McKay knew nothing about him; how dare he judge so quickly and so meanly?

"Why would you presume me to be embarrassed by your childish taunting?" McKay asked, his expression shifting to one of honest puzzlement.

"I... well. You're here for a... a _reason_."

"A _reason_ , sir? Can you elaborate? Or shall we make shadow puppets on the wall for you to express your meaning?"

Johnny lifted one hand to rub at the back of his neck. It was a nervous gesture he'd never been trained out of. "Ahhhh... well... that is... given the way you _died_...."

McKay abruptly appeared beside Sheppard, causing the taller man to stumble a few inches away even as McKay said with teeth bared, "The way I _died_ , Major?"

Johnny grimaced. "I mean... you committed suicide."

"Oh, really? Found the note yourself, did you?"

"What? No!"

"Then, what made you think I committed suicide?"

"Mr. Kavanaugh said—"

McKay let out an irate bellow and spun away. Johnny was glad the ghost was facing the other way, because he hadn't been able to hold in a flinch. Instead, he watched McKay begin pacing around the room, his hands waving wildly through the air as he ranted.

"Kavanaugh's a fool!" McKay snarled. "A bigger dunce, a more feckless dullard, I have never met – and, having met a sample of nearly every human population on nearly every continent of this world, that is _saying_ something! Do you know the man actually fancies himself a scientist? I cannot recall _how many_ of his pet theories I tore to shreds with the brilliance of my mind. Thank any god you care to call upon, if you believe in them, that his father and the man's partners all died in a boating accident, thus forcing Kavanaugh to take the business or descend into pauperism! What he'd have _done_ to science! Oh, the horror!"

Johnny snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll take it that the two of you are not bosom friends, then."

McKay whirled to face him, snapping his fingers and pointing at Sheppard. "Are you jesting with me? The man wouldn't know what to do with a bosom if he had one in front of him for the taking!"

Johnny clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his guffaw of amusement.

At the sound that emerged – like that of gravel rocks caught in a grinding stone – McKay blinked and stared at Sheppard, amazed. Then, he softened; a reluctant smile gracing his crooked mouth as he moved to lean one hip against the wooden block table.

"It isn't merely Kavanaugh," McKay said, bracing one hand on the table top. "They're _all_ fools; every last one of them that had a say in my death. I went to sleep in my bedroom, in the chair you're so fond of, directly by the gas-heater. At some point in my sleep – I suffered from restless legs syndrome, you know – I presume I kicked the gas on with my foot. It was a stormy night... like this one." He waved a hand towards the kitchen windows and was obliged with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. "There was a gale blowing in off the water, so I shut the windows as anyone with even half of a functioning brain would have. I'll assume you have better than half, given you haven't made a move to voluntarily open any windows since the storm moved in."

"No," Johnny murmured wryly. "That would have been _you_."

McKay snorted. He continued on as if Sheppard hadn't said a word. "The coroner's jury – filled by a body of contemptuous old men that had never in their lives had a charitable thought or word for me – issued the cause as suicide because my blasted valet, Grodin, testified that I always slept with the windows open! How the devil would _he_ know how I slept?"

"Might it be possible he was another of those that never had a charitable thought or word for you?" Johnny prompted.

"I shouldn't see why. I let him eat my food, sleep in my house, and chase after the skirts of the village girls when I didn't need him to run errands for me. I even paid him a tuppence extra 'round the holidays."

"Oh, two whole pennies? How extravagant of you, McKay," Johnny teased, and grinned at the narrowed glare he received. "At any rate, I'm glad."

McKay frowned and turned to face Johnny entirely. "You've a strange sense of humor, Major."

Johnny waved a hand dismissively. "Not _that_ you died, but _how_... and even then, really, not that. I'm simply glad you didn't suicide." He cocked an eyebrow at the ghost. "But, if you didn't do _that_ , then why do you _haunt?_ "

McKay's smile was wide and wicked. "I have plans for my house – plans that _do not_ include a pack of uneducated strangers barging in and claiming the place as theirs!"

Ignoring the ghost's insult about education, Johnny smirked and said, "Then, you _were_ trying to frighten me away!"

McKay laughed. "You call _that_ trying? I've barely begun. It was enough for all the others – but, then, none of the others were an Army Major dotted with war wounds." He ignored Sheppard's start of surprise and tilted his head. "I'll admit: in your case, I outlined the plan of removal with regret. You're not a bad-looking man, you know – especially when you're asleep."

Johnny went still. He recognized the look of appreciation on the ghost's face. It was cause for hesitancy from a living man – the surprise, the fear of discovery from others, the pleasure of the pass – but from a _dead_ one? It was off-putting.

Then, as the spirit's words filtered through his mind, he straightened up with a dark scowl and snapped, "You _were_ in my room this afternoon!"

" _My_ room, Major!" McKay snapped back, matching him scowl-for-scowl.

"I thought I'd dreamed it," Johnny continued, raking a hand through his cowlick hair. He put his hands on his hips and glared. "Was that another half-baked attempt at frightening me?"

"Was _what_ a half-baked attempt at frightening you? And, _no_ , by the way, it – whatever it was – was _not_. My attempts are _never_ half-baked!"

"They've not risen to the occasion thus far," Johnny sneered. "I meant the opening of the balcony door!"

" _That_ was an attempt, alright – to keep another accident with the blasted gas from occurring! Contrary to your heckling assumption, I do not wish for spectral company!" McKay growled.

"You can't prove it by me," Johnny muttered.

The scientist squinted a glare at him. "I wouldn't call _that_ remark in the best of taste."

It struck Sheppard, suddenly: the oddity of bantering words with the spirit of a _deceased man_. Gathering his dignity about him, he said, "I'm certain it was very kind of you, but I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

"Oh, yes, certainly you are. How many bullet scars is it? Four? Five? And then there's the Yellow Jack lurking about your system, waiting for a chance to reactivate."

"I assure you—!"

But McKay had turned to walk away, clearly considering the topic dismissed.

Insulted to his core, Johnny snatched up the matchbox and stormed back across the kitchen. This time, the stove burner lit when he wanted it to, and the kettle filled with water began heating.

Having taken the candleholder with him, Johnny turned and lifted it high. The light of the small flame filled the kitchen enough to show McKay leaning against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Sheppard at his task.

"What is it now?" the ghost sighed.

"I just wanted to see if you're _really_ there," Johnny explained.

"Of course I'm really here!" McKay snapped. "And I'll still be here when you've packed up and gone!"

Johnny slammed the candleholder down onto the countertop beside the stove. "Isn't that presuming the result of the theory before the conclusion of the experiment?" At the ghost's shocked look, he clarified: "I'm _not_ going. This house suits me perfectly."

"My dear Major, it's not your house," came the steely reply.

"It is as long as I pay rent."

McKay snorted and looked away. "Pay rent to my foolish sister."

Sheppard couldn't resist getting in a dig. "She's the legal owner!"

"Legal owner, be damned!" McKay shouted, and moved to stand directly in front of the younger man. "It's _my_ house; my grandmother left it to me! I want it turned into a home-cum-laboratory for scientists in need of peace and quiet for experiments!"

"Peace and quiet? With _you_ around?" Johnny taunted. "It hardly matters. You should've said so in _your_ Will."

"I didn't leave a Will!"

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't expect to kick the blasted gas on with my blasted foot!" McKay roared, clearly infuriated.

He wasn't the only one.

Without a word, Johnny picked up the kettle by the handle and hurled the whole thing across the kitchen at McKay. The kettle went right through the ghost and crashed into the sink with a clatter.

Both men – ghost and living – froze and waited to see if anyone would come running to investigate.

When no creak of the stair sounded, or thump of running feet, Johnny let himself breathe noisily through his nose. With his hands clenched into fists, he snarled, "I realize you don't know me very well, Doctor McKay, so allow me to make myself plain: I do not take well to being shouted at and ordered about as if I haven't a brain to think with or feelings to harm. Too many people have made the attempt on me to do so without _good_ reason and I am _sick_ of it. Do you hear me? Sick and _damned_ tired of it, damn you! Damn you to _Hell!_ "

Wide-eyed, McKay simply looked back at him.

"Oh! You don't take me seriously?" Sheppard flared, and advanced on the ghost. "You're laughing at me, I'll wager. But I won't let you laugh for long! I _won't_ leave this house! You _cannot_ make me leave it if I don't wish to go – and I _don't!_ "

McKay stepped away as Sheppard drew near and held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "I'm not laughing, Major – but, may I say, choosing a profession as a _soldier_ seems somewhat odd if you've a reluctance to being snarled and snapped at and told what to do when and by whom."

"That was a choice I made – not one forced upon me," Johnny snapped. "I knew what I would experience when I joined up. I accepted it and that made the experience mine to control! But I never asked for _you_ or your callous cruelty!"

At that, McKay reared back a little, looking shocked and – possibly – a trifle remorseful.

Sheppard sighed, the fight draining out of him as he turned away.

"I love this house," he said quietly, refilling the kettle and replacing it on the still-lit burner. "I _love_ it. The moment I saw it, I thought: 'I must stay here'. I can't explain it. It's as if the house itself were welcoming me; telling me I had come home and how glad it was it would no longer stand abandoned and alone. But you can't understand that, can you?"

"All too well, actually," McKay murmured, coming to stand near him. "I felt that way about a cat, once. I rescued the thing from a life as an alley cat; a matted, half-starved, half-mad tabby that had been badly handled by humans and life in general. I took a chance on him and him on me." The ghost moved away to stare out the kitchen windows. "Always swore I was safer with him than with any dog; a more fierce mouser and protector I'd never find, and more so for me than any other master – out of gratitude."

They were both silent as each pondered the confession they'd given each other.

Eventually, McKay swung about to glower haughtily at Sheppard. "So, you love the house – that counts for you. And you've courage to buck propriety and state your mind, needs, and wants; that counts for you, too. Furthermore, you didn't frighten easily; another point in your favor." He sighed and shook his head. "The long solitude must have broken my mind, but I still say: you may stay."

A smile widening across his face, overjoyed, Johnny stepped quickly toward McKay with the intention of pounding the man's shoulder with a friendly buffet. "McKay, _thank_ you—!"

Immediately, the ghost moved away, putting two feet of distance between them even as he scowled. "Keep your distance, Major!"

The grin fell away from Johnny's face. He felt oddly hurt at the other man's rejection. "I'm sorry. It's only that you've made me happy."

"I've no intention of making you happy, Major," the ghost sneered. "In fact, you'll more than likely wish you'd never asked for my acceptance."

"I _didn't_ ask for it."

McKay ignored him to flick his gaze around the room. "I am merely doing what is best for the house."

Johnny licked his lips and nodded. It was about the house, of course – not him. Ghosts had no use for the living, after all. "Then we're agreed: you'll go right away and leave us alone."

Surprise, followed by indignation, flicked across McKay's face. "The hell you say, Major. I'll _not_ go right away and what do you mean by trying to evict me from my own home?"

"Because of _Anna_ ," Sheppard retorted. "She’s my _daughter_. I'll not have you frighten her into fits!"

McKay snorted. "I never frighten little girls into fits. At least, not intentionally. And if she's all that lily-livered, exposure to me would soon serve to toughen her up."

"My daughter is _not_ lily-livered!" Sheppard growled, insulted on Anna's behalf. "She's probably more courage in her left pinky than you have in your entire spectral body!"

"You might be right at that," McKay admitted with a grimace. "I haven't been able to experiment to determine if phantasm is less or more than physically being."

Johnny sighed and raked a hand through his hair again.

McKay snorted and grinned. "You look rather like a ruffled cockatiel when you do that."

Johnny rolled his eyes. "About Anna – I do not want her exposed to bad language and questionable morals."

"Then why has she been left in _your_ tender loving care, Major? Since we've spoken, you've damned me to hell and thrown a kettle at my head!"

"For all the good it's done me," Sheppard groused, but with a grin. "You're still here, aren't you?"

"Yes! Yes, I am – and _here_ I intend to stay!" McKay said, waving a hand in a gesture that encompassed the house or, perhaps, the entire mortal world.

"Be that as it may, my Anna is much too young to see ghosts," Johnny replied, holding his ground.

McKay looked at him for a few moments, his gaze calculating. Finally, he said, "Very well, Major, I'll make you a deal."

Wary, Sheppard squinted a glare at him. "What deal?"

"Leave my bedroom as it is and I'll promise not to go into any other bedroom in the house," McKay offered. "Your brat need never know anything about me."

Johnny frowned. "But if you keep the best bedroom, where shall I sleep?"

McKay's smile was wicked and warm. "In the best bedroom."

"I beg your pardon? I hardly _know_ you."

Something about the mild flirting apparently rubbed the ghost the wrong way, it seemed. McKay stormed about the kitchen in a mad pace, waving his hands as he shouted, "For God's sake, Sheppard, why not? I'm a _spirit!_ I've no body, not really. I haven't had one for some twenty or so years! Is that clear? All you see is an illusion, like a frigging lantern slide!"

Johnny grimaced at the language, mentally picturing Anna's wide and curious eyes if she should hear the words. Nevertheless, he focused his gaze on McKay's body. Honestly... he really couldn't tell the difference. Perhaps if McKay allowed him to touch, he might know it, but the ghost seemed adamant against such a thing. To Johnny's eyes, however, McKay looked like any other _real_ man; he even cast a shadow, for Heaven's sake!

Johnny said as much and was treated to McKay's snapping retort: "I'm as real as needs be – but you needn't more than _that_. What you see is what you're allowed."

Sheppard sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, fine, alright; I take the hint: you're _dead_."

"Thank you."

Johnny covered his mouth with one hand to hide his smile. After a moment, he got control of himself and straightened to say, "I suppose it's alright. Despite your brash manner, I can't see you intentionally hurting a woman or a child."

McKay gave him a freezing cold glare as he said, "Of course I wouldn't. For all of my many faults, I'd not set out to harm a female of any age." He sighed and turned away. "Idiot sisters notwithstanding." He shook his head. "I'm probably making a mistake. I always was a fool for a beautiful, if somewhat stupid person."

Johnny glared at the ghost's back. "I am _not_ stupid!"

"If you _weren't_ , you'd notice your damned kettle's about to boil over."

Johnny whirled around and noticed, finally, the whistle-and-steam pouring from the spout of the kettle. Hurrying across, he lifted the kettle and gave a derisive snort.

"I do beg your pardon, Doctor _Ghost_ ," he muttered. "It's not every day I find myself in communication with the dead where they can speak _back_."

As Johnny put the kettle on a cool burner, McKay spoke up behind him. "Oh, one more thing: I want my painting – the one in the living room – hung in the bedroom; tonight."

Sheppard clenched his teeth, counted to five, and then fixed a pleasant expression on his face as he turned to face the ghost. "Must I? It's a very _poor_ painting."

McKay scowled darkly. "It's _my_ painting and I don't recall inviting your criticism. I make that part of the bargain: I want you to put it there before you sleep tonight."

Johnny crossed his arms over his chest. "This bargain of yours keeps changing by the minute on your end, while mine remains the same."

McKay snorted. "It’s the last change I'll make, I promise you. Fail to meet it, and your daughter will learn more about the existence of ghosts than she'll ever care to have done before the sun rises!"

Sheppard glared. "Fine."

"Fine. Goodnight."

Johnny turned back to the kettle as he said curtly, "Goodnight."

When nothing more came from the ghost, Johnny sighed and tried not to feel bad. It didn't work. After all, he'd basically told the poor man that he thought him _ugly_ , when nothing could be farther from the truth.

"I only meant that it doesn't do you justice," he said, turning about with the kettle in one hand and the candleholder in the other. "It's just that—"

But he was speaking to nothing as there was no one there. Thunder crashed as lightning illuminated the kitchen's furnishings, but no sign of anyone else except him as the occupant.

Johnny's shoulders dropped as he let out a huff of surprise. Steeling his nerves, he nevertheless went across the kitchen to the table where his hot water bottle waited. Setting the candleholder down, he shifted the bottle's neck toward the candle for maximum sight and began pouring from the kettle.

"You might at least have turned the light back on before you left," he grumbled, irritated.

With another crash of thunder and flash of lightning, the gaslight flicked back on as abruptly as it had been turned out.

Johnny whirled about to stare at the lamp by the stove, his heart pounding. For a moment, he considered railing at the ghost. But, as any _good_ soldier knew, battles had to be chosen carefully: this one was not worth engaging in.

Turning back around, he resumed filling the hot water bottle... but he left the candle burning.

 

*~*~*

 

Half-an-hour later, John flung open his bedroom door. He was rumpled and a trifle sweaty and _definitely_ out of sorts. He picked up the candleholder from the hall floor, as well as the hot water bottle, and carried both inside. He set the candleholder on the dresser that held his clothes and stuffed the hot water bottle beneath the covers of his bed where it could set about warming the mattress where his feet would rest. He could put up with a lot, but not cold feet. Then, resolutely, he went back out into the hallway. With a grunt, he hefted the large wooden frame that held McKay's portrait and wrestled the picture into the bedroom. Huffing, puffing, he lugged the thing across the bedroom and then hefted it up onto the settee, letting it lean back against the wall.

"I'm _tired_ and aching nastily," Johnny grumbled as he went back to close his bedroom door. "I'll hang the portrait _tomorrow_ , McKay, and if that doesn't suffice, I'll go this very moment to find an exorcist."

He waited, but he had no sense that his declaration was taken amiss. In fact, he fancied he felt his nerves being soothed. Dismissing the thought as absurd, Johnny took a deep breath and then let it out. Given that the lamps were lit, he went to the dresser and blew out the candle, and then began to undress in preparation for bed.

Passing by the mirror, however, he glanced into it and immediately froze. From the angle, it looked almost as if the portrait's eyes were _following_ him, watching him avidly. Feeling his flesh creep with chill, Johnny went across the room. Defiantly, he left his shirt unbuttoned, but he nevertheless tugged the afghan out from beneath the portrait and used it to cover McKay's haughty face.

Feeling marginally better for having covered the portrait's face, Johnny resumed getting undressed as he muttered, "Such nonsense."

Twenty minutes later, with his face and armpits and feet washed and dressed in a woolen nightshirt, Johnny blew out the gaslights and climbed into bed, snuggling into the thick and comfy mattress, nestled cozily beneath the clean sheets and warm quilts. In the darkness, the sound of rain hitting the balcony windows provided a soothing drumbeat to lull him to sleep.

In that same slumberous darkness, McKay's voice said with wry and wicked humor: "My dear Major... never let anyone tell you that you have something to be ashamed of!"

Johnny bolted upright, glaring angrily into the dark – but empty – bedroom. Furious, realizing that this was yet another battle he wouldn't win, Sheppard flopped back down and punched the pillow a few times before curling up beneath the blankets and attempted to will himself to sleep.

 

*~*~*~*


	3. It's Meant to be Sensational - Like the Subject!

A few weeks later, Teyla was helping Sheppard put away freshly laundered clothes. He turned when she made a huff of displeasure. “Teyla?”

“It’s a week past the end date of the traditional mourning period,” she murmured, running a lint brush down the sleeve of one black suit coat. “You were only ever required to wear an armband. All of this black… life is black enough; no need to drape yourself in it.”

“I like it,” he said easily. “It suits me.”

“Other colors suit you, as well.”

“I still have no need to change my wardrobe. It fits, it’s in style, and I don’t look bad.”

“Major…”

“Teyla.”

She sighed. “As you wish. I’m off to the village to collect Anna from school.”

“Thank you,” Johnny said, and gave her a grin. “Cheer up, Teyla; life isn’t as bad as all that.”

“Who says it is?” she retorted, and left the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

Johnny snorted, and then turned toward the balcony with the thought of stepping out to get a few moments of sunshine on his face.

Instead, he slammed to a halt and let out a noise of shock at the sight of McKay standing on the telescope platform. The ghost was leaning against the device, one arm braced on it, and glaring at him so heatedly that for a moment, Johnny thought he might actually burst into flames.

“Good afternoon, McKay,” he greeted, and silently congratulated himself on a steady voice, considering he could see _through_ the irate spirit.

“What in hell have you done with my Monkey Puzzle tree?” McKay demanded to know as a return greeting.

Giving the irate spirit a bright smile, Johnny said, “I expect it’s been chopped into firewood by now.”

McKay stepped off the platform, becoming opaque, and stormed up to the living man with his hands clenching and unclenching. “Damn it, Sheppard! I planted that tree with my own hands! Do you have any _idea_ how long that took? How many cuts I suffered? How much _dirt_ got under my fingernails?”

“I’m sorry it was so much wasted effort,” Johnny said, trying his best to appear earnest. “But it really was an ugly tree and blocked the fabulous view of the cliff and the sea.”

“It was a _gift_ from a _friend_ as a _memento_ of a favorite time in our lives!”

Oh; now Johnny did feel a _trifle_ bad. He hadn’t considered that the tree might mean fond memories to McKay while the thing had only dredged up horrid ones for him.

“I’m sorry, McKay,” he murmured, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I truly am. The tree… I didn’t like it and Kavanaugh said your sister telegraphed that I could take it down. Apparently, she didn’t think much of it, either.”

“Because she didn’t like the _reason_ for that tree’s existence!” McKay snapped. “I was… I traveled with Sir Richard Burton. Have you heard of him?”

“I recall hearing about his passing sometime around 1890,” Johnny replied. “There seemed to be some sort of scandal attached to him.”

“Of course there was! Cowardly, boring fops that society is filled with; naturally, they hid their heads at exploration and scientific advancement of any kind!”

“What did he do?”

McKay paused, smirked, and said, “He had sex with men.”

Johnny’s eyes flared wide. He could _feel_ himself going pale as he stared at the ghost in shock.

McKay snorted. “Richard enjoyed shocking people and he had an insatiable curiosity about _everything_. While his chosen area of science – he preferred investigating cultures and the people in them – was hardly what I considered time worthy, he himself was wildly entertaining and so very interesting! When we could, we traveled together; shared meals, shared rooms… shared beds.”

Sheppard made a sound, amazed and appalled – and maybe a little envious – all at once.

McKay snorted again. “You needn’t sound so shocked.”

“I just… I mean…” Johnny cleared his throat and tried again. “That is: Teyla has her heart set on a bed of roses. They’ll do well where the Monkey Puzzle tree was.”

The ghost scowled, his amused humor vanishing. “I _hate_ roses. I hope the whole frigging bed dies of blight!”

Sheppard pointed a finger at him and glared. “Don’t you dare interfere with Teyla’s roses! She does a lot for me and Anna and doesn’t deserve to be tampered with because you’re angry with me.”

McKay curled his lip. “Amazingly enough, Major, we agree on _that_ much.”

“Good! Additionally: stop _swearing_ at me. I can understand it when in times of life-endangering stress, but doing it now because of bad temper is simply… ugly.”

“High-society boy,” the ghost sneered. “If you think _that’s_ ugly, then it’s a good thing you can’t read my thoughts!”

“As black as your mood, then?”

“As black as the funereal wear you refuse to remove under false pretenses!”

Johnny’s head jerked up as he stiffened his spine. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means that you’re continuing to wear black because it’s _easy_ to hide behind! Like the color you might very well do, but once you take it off, you’ll be expected to go wife-hunting again and that’s the _last_ thing you want to do. As long as you wear black, people will twitter romantic nonsense about how deep your mourning is and how true your love must be, when the _truth_ is that your lady Elizabeth was convenient and compassionate as she overlooked your honest preferences!”

Sheppard stared at the ghost and wondered, for a moment, if it really was possible to die on the spot from shock. He almost hoped so, because in that instant, he wanted to _hit_ the other man with every fiber of his being.

McKay waved a hand in a gesture of irritation. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! Why else do you think I said you needn’t sound shocked at my admission of enjoying Richard’s attentions? It would be far too hypocritical of you.”

His heart pounding, utterly furious, Sheppard’s hands slowly curled into fists. “How _dare_ you!” Seeing McKay’s confusion, Johnny shouted, “Have you no sense of propriety, man? No one simply _says_ these things! No one blurts out their suspicions, their accusations—“

“To suspect is to doubt and to accuse is to blame,” McKay retorted, interrupting. “I doubt not and I blame not. Why should I? You haven’t done anything _wrong_. As to propriety… why should I care? I’m _dead_ and the only one to hear my honest statements is you.” The ghost paused, shifted his shoulders, and then offered, “I do apologize if I’ve offended you badly.”

“ _Offended_ me!” Johnny snapped, and turned away lest he give in to his urge to attack the spirit. He paced his room for a few moments before he whirled to point at the other man. “You know damned well you offended me! You did so in a fit of spite – for the tree and for the fact that no one put on mourning for _you_. I can’t see how they could for a man so cruel as to treat people with such utter contempt!”

“Shows what _you_ know about it,” McKay shot back with a smirk. “Richard was but _one_ of my contemporaries to arrive at my funeral.”

“One of your _gigolos_ , I assume you mean!”

The ghost laughed. “Money? Never. I had sex for many reasons, Major, and regretted only some of it – but the motivation for my pleasure was never _money_.” Abruptly, he focused on Johnny, his blue eyes narrowing. “Ah, and there is the thread of your tale, I think.”

Sheppard crossed his arms over his chest. “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” McKay denied, but not maliciously. “It isn’t sex with men that offends you to your soul… it is sex for _money_. That, the preference for a man’s taste and touch, and the Monkey Puzzle tree… those are the threads of your tale that have you in such foul temper with me.”

“Oh, is _that_ all?” Johnny sneered. “It couldn’t be any impudence on _your_ part, possibly?”

“There’s always a possibility,” McKay replied, grinning at him.

Johnny was startled to find himself chuckling in response. Forcing the amusement away, he paced over to the telescope platform and stepped up beside it. He felt the ghost’s attention keenly on him, but McKay said nothing.

Sighing, Johnny shook his head. “I… his name was Jebediah Holland; ‘Jeb’ for short. We were in the same cavalry unit together. I grew up with wealth; he grew up as a charwoman’s son. It was known that I was from an upper class family, but he never seemed to care. He treated me as a man who worked for my posting and I did. I entered the Army as a buck private and worked my way up the ranks. I made Captain by the time I turned eighteen. I had a knack for strategy that served my superiors and my fellow soldiers well. Holland… he treated me that way: as another man serving in the United States Army. I was grateful. We were friends.”

McKay moved to stand at the other end of the telescope platform. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “What happened, Major?”

Johnny blew out a hard breath. “I… was careless. We were stationed in Cuba. I was… lonely. I’m certain I don’t need to describe that.” He gave the ghost a warning look when McKay opened his mouth. He continued when McKay closed his mouth. “I discovered the existence of a brothel that…”

“That catered to men _with_ men,” McKay said softly, and shook his head at Sheppard’s look of surprise. “Burton took me with him when a General in the East India Company asked him to investigate a similar whorehouse. The General had received reports of soldiers frequenting the establishment and knew well of Richard’s… capability, for lack of a better word.”

“Then… then you know of what I speak,” Johnny muttered. “I had learned of the brothel and was nearly there when Holland waylaid me. He took me away elsewhere; informed me that he knew of my proclivities, as he’d never seen me chasing skirts and had, on occasion, heard me murmur the name of a male friend in my sleep. He said that I had come too far in rank to endanger myself now. He… offered to help me. He said that while he believed my desires to be… unnatural… he did not think _me_ unnatural or a bad man, and would provide as much relief as he could to keep me safe.”

“Oh, dear,” McKay sighed, and closed his eyes. “I can see where this is going.”

Johnny took a deep breath and forced out the rest of the tale. “I accepted. He… would not allow much, but the touch of another’s hand was solace enough. It was a friend’s hand, a friend’s shoulder to lean on; the feel of a whiskered cheek against mine, a man’s scent rising up with heat and musk.”

“It was good,” McKay said, without opening his eyes.

“It was – until he got himself into bad debt. He was a poor gambler and never learned how to be better. I offered to teach him, but his pride wouldn’t allow it. He asked for a loan from me to keep the sharks off him. I refused. I knew he would pay it back only to go back and do it again. Holland then reminded me of the aid he’d loaned _me_ and wouldn’t it be a shame if anyone found out about it.”

McKay snorted and finally opened his eyes. “You agreed.”

“I had to!” Sheppard snapped, turning away to pace the floor of the bedroom. “I wanted to be… like other men. I wanted to be _normal_.”

“You _are_ normal, Sheppard,” McKay said quietly. “You are a very natural man.”

“It’s not an opinion shared by society at large,” Johnny grumbled. “At any rate, I paid him for his silence. I did it again twice more before I simply _couldn’t_ ; I’d run out of money. Thankfully, Holland was not ridiculous; he understood that I could not produce money from nowhere. Then, we were made ready for battle. The unit was sectioned and sent off on our errands. I… word came down that Holland’s section was in trouble. I knew I could get to his section, I knew I could help. But I chose not to.”

When he turned to look at McKay, he saw that the ghost was looking at him calmly with no hint of disgust or pity on his pale features.

Johnny shook his head and looked away. “At first; I chose not to _at first_. But… I couldn’t hold that determination. I couldn’t ignore the need for help, no matter who was in danger. I’d been reprimanded and busted down a rank once before when I’d gone to aid two friends who had gotten trapped behind enemy lines. I got them out, but my commanding officer was furious that I had ignored his order. It meant more than saving the lives of five men – my friends and three others. To me, saving lives was more important; then, and again with Holland’s section. I had to try and so I did. I arrived too late. The men were down and mostly dead. I was in danger of being discovered and killed, too. I found Holland beneath a Monkey Puzzle tree. He was dying. I told him I’d get him out of there; that I’d not leave him for the enemy. He told me to forget it, forget him; I’d done enough coming to help. He thanked me for coming even though he’d used me so shamefully. He begged my forgiveness. He died in the middle of asking for it. I hauled his body back to base camp and made certain his effects were sent back to his family. I found… I found a letter for me among them. He’d written his sorrow for having done me such wrong and prayed someday I would forgive him.”

“Did you?” McKay asked.

“I did. While I had the Yellow Fever, I was delirious… or maybe Holland’s spirit really _did_ come to me, now that I know better,” Sheppard said, and gave the ghost a wry grin. “I dreamt Holland appeared to me and begged my forgiveness. I shouted at him. I unleashed my anger and resentment on him and he admitted he’d earned it, but asked me again for my forgiveness. And I… well; I was too tired to continue the anger and hatred toward him. I granted forgiveness and meant it. He vanished from my fever dreams and never reappeared.”

McKay snorted. “To think I was so proud to be your first haunting!”

“Then, it was him?”

“It certainly sounds like it.” McKay sighed. “So, if you’ve forgiven him, why did _my_ Monkey Puzzle tree have to die?”

“Forgiven, yes; _forgotten_ , no,” Johnny retorted. “Still… I am sorry that I didn’t consider you when I had the thing cut down. Given the ugliness of the tree, it didn’t occur to me that anyone would actually _want_ one of those things.”

“If you had witnessed the things Richard did to me beneath one of them, then you would understand,” smirked McKay, and Johnny felt his ears heat with a blush. “Oh, gracious God! At your age, and with the horrors you’ve witnessed, you can still blush! How utterly charming. Do it again; give us a show.”

“Us? Is there more than one spirit lurking?” Johnny asked, quirking a grin at him.

McKay jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the balcony windows. “That depends on whether you believe in good spirits or bad spirits – though, from the looks of _those_ two, I’d be inclined to lead with the latter.”

Johnny hurried to the windows and looked out. Anna ran up the walk, followed more sedately by Teyla, but it was the sight of two women descending from a hired wagon with the aid of the driver that made him groan, “Oh, bloody hell!”

“Who are your callers?” McKay asked, curious.

“My blasted in-laws!” Sheppard hissed, and saw McKay’s smile from the corner of his eye. “What the devil do they mean by coming here?”

“I certainly hope it’s not to move in with you.”

“I certainly hope so, too,” Johnny replied, watching the two women stride up the walk. Angelica looked delicate and weepy, as usual. Eva looked haughty and homely, as usual.

“Never mind I don’t want any more intruders,” McKay grumbled. “I happen to _like_ beautiful things and people—“

“Not counting Monkey Puzzle trees,” Johnny quipped.

“—and that sister-in-law of yours is suitable material for an All Hallow’s Eve mask in a fright competition.”

Johnny bit down on his lip and snickered even as he hurried over to the bedroom door and opened it a crack. He groaned when he heard Teyla inviting the Weirs inside and directing them up the stairs to his bedroom. Turning, he found McKay standing behind him, also listening.

Sheppard gave a strangled squawk of distress. “What are you still doing here? Quick: hide! Go away or, or, or… decompose!”

McKay gave him a disdainful look and went back across the room to the telescope. “ _Dematerialize_ , Major!”

“Whatever it is you do, do it quickly!” Sheppard ordered as he followed McKay.

The ghost gave Johnny a smug grin, mischief making his blue eyes seem to dance. “Have no fear, Major. They cannot see me or hear me – unless I choose that they should.”

“Then, please, don’t choose! I’ll get rid of them!”

“Why not let me? I’ve had _plenty_ of practice!”

“I’m certain,” Johnny muttered dryly, “but I don’t want you to!”

“Are you sure? Just say the word, Major, and I’ll have them running for the hills!”

“No!” Johnny snapped. He was unaware of the door opening behind him. “You’re not to do anything!”

Seeing the ghost’s eyes flick past him, however, Johnny whirled around to find the two women standing just inside of his room, looking at him with undisguised confusion and worry.

Eva put her nose in the air as she stared at Sheppard. In the condescending tone she usually took with him, she said, “Well, Johnny.” Then, she leaned over and stage-whispered to her mother: “Talking to himself.”

Angelica fixed a weak smile on her face and strode across the room, her arms out for a hug. “Oh, my poor Johnny,” she warbled, not quite crying yet, but the sound of imminent tears was there. She caught hold of Sheppard and pulled him in for a hug and a kiss to his cheek. “You look so pale!”

Eva marched further into the room and looked around, taking in the odd collection of furnishings. She couldn’t have known McKay or his history, so that nothing matched and sometimes even jarred held no meaning for her. The ship’s clock on the mantelpiece was, as far as she was concerned, the nicest thing in the room.

“What an ugly room!” she declared. “Whatever do you want with this mish-mash collection of things?”

Seeing the darkening fury on McKay’s face, Johnny quickly said, “I like them. The eclectic jumble makes the place feel lived in.”

“You never liked that sort of thing when you lived with us,” Eva dismissed. “Sit down, Mother.”

Obediently, Angelica lowered herself to sit on the settee. She was unaware of the ghostly man sitting beside her on her left as she continued to smile weakly at Johnny.

Eva moved to stand before the settee. She glared up at McKay’s portrait. She would never admit it aloud, but she rather liked the features of the man painted on the canvas. She liked the pugnacious thrust of his chin; he had the sort of determination that would have made a name and money. Still, she was determined to disdain anything Johnny had chosen for himself. That included the house and every article inside it.

“What a _hideous_ painting,” she sneered.

Johnny was the only one who heard when McKay growled back, “With a face like yours, Madam, you would do better to keep such opinions under wraps!”

Johnny bit down on his lip to keep from laughing aloud.

Eva turned and glared at the telescope. “What on _Earth_ do you want that telescope for?”

“Oh, that,” Johnny drawled, settling himself in the wingback chair. He crossed his legs, one over the other, at the knee and leaned his left cheek against his fist. “It serves double-duty. On clear nights, I can use it to look at the stars—“

“You never did that when you lived with us,” she interjected.

“—and on clear days, I can use it to spy on bathers loitering on the beach below,” he finished, lifting an eyebrow at her.

McKay burst out laughing even as Angelica gave a shocked gasp and Eva went pale while she stared at Sheppard in insulted fury.

“There’s no need to be crass!” she hissed. “If you don’t want to say so, then so be it! You needn’t invent a vulgar reason simply to antagonize me!”

“So any old reason will do?” Johnny inquired, his tone as sweet as candy.

Eva wrinkled her face at him in a sneer. “I suppose it’s part of the same charade that prompted you to put that ugly painting on the wall?”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Sheppard murmured, glancing at the ostentatious painting. “In fact, I believe I’m rather fond of it.”

McKay actually _giggled_ and the sound nearly ruined Johnny’s composure, as did the high-pitched squeak of “Liar!”

Eva shared a look with her mother, and then sniffed disdainfully as she refocused on Sheppard. “Well, Johnny, if you want to put the portrait of a strange man in your room… I suppose that’s up to you.”

“One would think so,” Johnny replied, and bared his teeth at her in what might charitably be called a smile. “At any rate, I’m certain you didn’t come here merely to criticize the decorations.”

“No, we did not,” Eva agreed icily, and sat down beside her mother – unaware of the ghost hurriedly scooting up and off of the settee before she could make contact with him.

“Oh, poor Johnny,” Angelica whimpered, pulling out a handkerchief in preparation for weeping. “We’ve such bad news.”

Johnny went still. The only thing he could think of was that something had happened to the Sheppards; his father, his brother, his brother’s wife and children….

“I suppose it’s all for the best, don’t you, Eva?” Angelica continued, looking to her daughter for approval.

“Yes, I do,” Eva said firmly. “And in my opinion, we’re _just_ in time.”

McKay rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head.

“So, perhaps our bad news is good news,” Angelica quavered, “and now we can all go home together and forget this nonsense of you living alone.”

Johnny remained still even as he felt a chill of dread begin to permeate his guts. Give up Gull Cottage? Go _‘home’_ with those two emotional drains?

He was aware of McKay stepping up beside his chair even as he demanded of his mother-in-law: “What news is this?”

“Your gold run, Johnny,” Angelica murmured, “it’s petered out.”

Eva gave him a coldly victorious smile. “They’ve stopped paying dividends. It was in _The Richmond Times_ a few days ago.”

“Oh,” Johnny whispered. He blinked at the realization that he’d not lost family he hadn’t spoken with in years. He’d lost _money_ ; the necessary bit of income that would enable him to live on his own and still support his daughter and Teyla.

McKay wrapped an arm around the back of the top of the chair to brace himself. He leaned down and murmured in Johnny’s ear, “Hold tight, now. Don’t make a scene in front of these loons.”

“I don’t intend to make a scene!” Sheppard hissed, turning his face towards the ghost.

Angelica jumped to her feet and moved to the chair, stepping to the side Johnny’s face was turned toward. McKay hurriedly scrambled away from her approach, moving to put the chair between him and the middle-aged woman, glowering at her.

“Oh, of course you don’t,” Angelica simpered, petting Johnny’s nearest shoulder. “You’re my brave little boy, is what you are.” Even as Sheppard’s eyes widened in horror, she crumpled into tears. “Oh, poor Johnny!”

McKay made a nauseated sound and crossed his arms over his chest. “Make her stop that infernal slobbering or I _will_ take a hand in it!”

“You keep out of this!” Johnny snapped, startling Angelica into actually shutting up.

“Oh, _Johnny!_ ” she yelped, shocked to her core. Believing him to be unloading his temper at her, she went right back to weeping – louder than before.

McKay snorted a laugh, amused despite himself, and only laughed harder when Sheppard hurled himself out of the chair and stalked across the room while snarling, “Blast and damnation!”

Angelica gave a tiny shriek and hurried to her daughter’s side as Eva stood up. “Oh, Eva! Did you _hear_ him?”

“Yes, I heard him. Stop sniveling, Mother!” Eva commanded, and Angelica obediently went silent. Eva fixed the full force of her glare on her brother-in-law. “If that’s what you want, we _will_ leave!”

“I didn’t mean you,” Johnny muttered wearily.

“Then whom _did_ you mean?”

Very tired, with a raging headache, Sheppard snapped, “I _could_ tell you, but you’d never believe me!”

“All I know is that you’re acting in a most peculiar fashion,” Eva retorted, her voice cold. “The only _charitable_ explanation is that the solitude has preyed on your mind!”

McKay strode over to join him by the telescope. “She thinks you have bats in your belfry!”

“Oh, would you _pipe down!_ ” Johnny shouted, frustrated at being under verbal assault from all sides.

“Very well, I _will_ ‘pipe down’ as you put it!” Eva retorted, shaking off Angelica’s clinging hand as she stormed over to get in his face. “But it should be perfectly obvious that with your income severely diminished, there’s only one course for you to follow: come home with us; now!”

“Oh, yes,” Angelica whimpered, coming over to join her daughter. She smiled hopefully up at Johnny. “And Eva – my poor, darling Eva – is still unattached. You can offer for her hand, Johnny! You can marry into the Weir family again now that the mourning period has passed.”

Sheppard stared at Angelica, horrified. He flicked a quick glance to Eva and, though she was trying to hide it, her expression let him know who had planted the thought in Angelica’s mostly empty head.

He looked away from them to stare around the room. He felt outnumbered, overwhelmed, and helpless in a way he hadn’t felt since fighting in the war several years back.

“Give up this house?” he whispered, numb to his core.

“ _Naturally_ ,” sneered Eva. “I don’t know what you were thinking to take it in the first place. Now that you’re practically a pauper, how can you possibly stay? You’ve made it clear you won’t beg your father’s forgiveness and so cannot rely on your wealthy relations for aid.”

The truth of that hit Johnny harder than cannon shot. He clutched at the telescope, bracing himself against the device as he bowed his head as he struggled to cope with the reality of his situation.

Abruptly, McKay’s voice murmured directly into an ear: “Don’t do it, Sheppard.”

Johnny shivered. “But I….”

“Tell them to get lost,” McKay urged. “We’ll figure something out.”

 _That_ got Johnny’s attention. He lifted his head and found McKay on the other side of the telescope. He stared wonderingly at the ghost. “You _want_ me to stay?”

“Yes.”

“You… really mean that.”

“Of _course_ I mean it. I’d not have said so otherwise!”

Johnny couldn’t help a small smile at the by-now familiar display of temper.

“Who would I have to bum around my home, smiling sweetly and blushing to the tips of his elfish ears?”

Sheppard gave a mock-scowl and then grinned. “If you’re certain.”

“I am. Unless you’d rather gallivant off to the altar with that horse-faced harridan and her ninny-hammered mother?”

Johnny shuddered. “I’d rather be eaten alive from the inside out by scavenger beetles than enter matrimony with her.”

To Angelica and the thoroughly-insulted Eva, it looked as though Johnny were conversing with nothing more than air. It gave him the appearance of a man gone insane.

This opinion was solidified when he turned to them, gave them a sunny smile, and said, “It’s very good of you to want me back, but I’m sorry; I can’t go with you. I’ve decided to face what may come and stay here. I’ll manage somehow. So, do be so good as to… get lost.”

Eva’s jaw dropped open in sheer outrage even as Angelica clung to her, crying and blubbering, “Oh, _Johnny!_ ”

Eva shook her off and shouted, “Stop _sniveling_ , Mother!” before rounding on Sheppard. “It’s just as well! You’ve clearly gone insane and I, for one, want nothing further to do with you! _Stay_ here until you’re truly penniless. When you’re thrown out, Anna and Teyla may come to live with us – but _you_ will stay away! Come, Mother!”

Whirling about, she caught one of Angelica’s wrists and pulled the crying woman out of the room and down the stairs.

Johnny slumped, laughing quietly to himself. When he straightened, he said, “Thanks, McKay, I—“

The ghost wasn’t there.

“McKay? McKay!” Realizing where the ghost had gone, Johnny yelled, “Don’t forget your promise!”

Several feet down, on the mid-landing of the staircase, McKay rolled his eyes at Sheppard’s bellow before focusing once more on the women that had halted before him. They still couldn’t see him, but _he_ could see _them_ through-and-through. Their thoughts were transparent to him and McKay thought that if he’d still had skin, Eva’s would send it crawling.

“It’s too ridiculous!” the homely woman snarled. She straightened her spine; set her shoulders. “I’m going back up there to give him another chance at sanity!”

She turned, hiking her long skirts up for climbing the stairs. A moment later, she jerked to a halt and spun around by a firm grip on her arm. Incensed, she snapped at her still-sniveling mother, “Stop _pulling_ me, Mother!”

Even as Angelica denied involvement, McKay couldn’t help the amused snicker that escaped him. It took so much more of his energy to touch living people than mere objects, but what he was about to do was worth it.

Again, Eva turned to climb the stairs. Again, she was jerked to a halt and spun around. Again, she shouted at her mother. “Stop it, I say!”

“But I—“

The two women began screaming as _something_ took hold of an arm each. There was nothing _there_ but _something_ had hold of them; something that was laughing, wild and wicked, as it propelled them forcefully down the stairs to the main hallway. As they were ushered toward the front door, it swung open all on its own. The freezing cold wrapped around their arms and the mean laughter in their ears remained, forcing them out the door and down the walk at a near run. Behind them, Jack the dog followed, barking furiously while Anna stood in the doorway, watching with wide eyes and a wider smile.

Upstairs, Johnny groaned softly and let his head rest against one of the balcony windows as, below, Angelica and Eva stumbled into a hysterical run down the path that led toward the village.

McKay’s thoroughly pleased chuckles filled the room as he reappeared, brushing his hands together with glee.

“You _promised_ ,” Johnny growled, still resting against the window.

“What did I promise?”

“That if I left this room—“ Sheppard broke off as he recalled the wording of the deal in full detail. He turned to look at the ghost with resigned weariness.

McKay smirked back at him. “Yes, precisely, Major. I promised to not go into any other bedroom in the house if you left this one alone.”

“Jesus God,” Johnny muttered, and covered his face with his hands.

“Oh, cease your whining. You wanted them gone – they’re gone.”

“Along with my reputation,” the living man snapped, letting his hands drop.

“Not unless they want to ruin their own along with it – or do you suppose people will take seriously their tales of unseen phantasms hurling them about?”

Johnny paused, blinked, and then slowly began to smile.

“Better,” McKay determined. “Now, if you’ll excuse me: taking hold of living flesh drained my strength terribly. I’m going to rest for a while. Try not to invite anymore fools into my house, won’t you?”

With that, he vanished, leaving Johnny to mutter, “ _My_ house… at least, for a little while longer.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

A few weeks later, Teyla was in Johnny’s bedroom, gathering up the man’s dirty laundry while Anna stood atop a stool, peering through the telescope.

“Papa’s coming aboard in a motorcar!” the little girl chirped excitedly.

Teyla snorted and propped the laundry basket on her hip. “Mr. Kavanaugh is invited to tea.”

Anna made a ‘yuck’ face and hopped down off the stool. She picked up Jack’s favorite ball of rags and ran from her father’s bedroom, the dog following with a bark. Teyla paused for a glance out of the windows, and then turned away with a sniff. She wanted to get the laundry downstairs before Kavanaugh made it into the house. No need for _him_ to catch a glimpse of _any_ of Johnny’s knickers.

Outside, Johnny stood looking at Gull Cottage for a few moments, wondering if he would really be able to work out a way to keep the little home. He would keep it forever if he could, but he’d settle for enough continuous income to be able to rent the place for a few more years.

“I’m terribly glad you found the house suitable after all,” Kavanaugh said, coming to stand beside him. Johnny turned to the other man with a polite smile. “I’m convinced now that we were unduly concerned about the possibility of a ghost haunting the place.”

 _’We’?_ Johnny thought, his mental tone sour. _As I recall, **you** were the one **concerned** about it._

Aloud, he said nothing as he opened the gate and invited Kavanaugh to step through to the walk that led up to the house.

“As you say,” Kavanaugh said, taking the invitation, “how could such a thing possibly exist in the Twentieth Century?”

“Oh, indeed,” Johnny replied airily. “How could they?”

Kavanaugh paused on the walk, turning to face the other man. He looked nervous for a moment, and then tried for a concerned expression. He only looked supercilious, as always.

“Still,” he said quietly, “you must admit: this _is_ an isolated location. I’ve often thought of you up here alone without a… friend.”

He reached out and very lightly touched the fingertips of one hand to one of Sheppard’s arms.

Johnny tipped his head back and arched an eyebrow, amused and insulted all at once at Kavanaugh’s brazen assumption of right to touch.

Before either of them could say anything, the motorcar started on its own. With a grinding chug, the brake released and the car began to roll backward down the sloping cliff path.

Hastily tipping his hat, Kavanaugh then ran for the corner of the fence nearest the road and hurtled it. He cleared the fence with surprising ease for a man of his age and raced down the dirt track, catching up with the runaway vehicle and hurling himself into the driver’s seat. He waved, indicating that he would continue down along the path toward the village rather than come to tea as planned.

Turning, Johnny looked up at the balcony and saw nothing there even as the curtain covering one window fell back into place. Fuming, he stormed up the path and into the house. He was ready to charge up the stairs when the door to the living room opened with a click and nothing else. Turning on his heel, Jonny swept into the room and slammed the door closed.

He pulled his hat off and slung it across the room even as he moved to stand beside McKay’s ghost in front of the fire that was toasting in the fireplace.

“I only hope that when _I_ reach the Afterlife, I behave with a little more dignity!” he snapped.

“ _Dignity?_ ” McKay shot back, turning to glare up at him. “You call it dignified to throw yourself at a hairy, measly-chinned mouse like _that?_ ”

“It was _his_ idea to do the throwing,” Johnny retorted. “All _I_ did was invite Mr. Kavanaugh up for tea because he’s the ideal person to help me find lodgers for the summer!”

“ _Lodgers?_ ” McKay echoed, and then chuckled lightly. He turned toward one of the armchairs by the fire where Jack lay curled on the cushion. “Here; vacate the area.”

With a grumpy growl, the dog heaved himself up and leaped down from the chair, trotting away to go flop in a corner.

Smug, the ghost settled himself in the chair and crossed his right leg over his left at the knee as he smirked up at the living man. “I beg your pardon, Major; I’d supposed you were trying to sign him on for a lover.”

“Mr. Kavanaugh? That mullipuff!” Johnny hissed, incredulous.

“Can you blame me? You, of all people, know what lengths desperate young men will go to for money,” McKay observed.

Stung to his core at that oblique reminder of his past, Johnny pulled his gloves off and his walking cape, slinging both into the other arm chair and then walked away to the writing desk on the other side of the room. He shrugged out of his suit coat, keenly aware of the ghost’s gaze on his back.

“I’m sorry,” McKay murmured a moment later, surprising Johnny. “That remark was in poor taste.”

Sheppard turned to look at him. He lifted an eyebrow at the sight of the ghost’s face turned away, a hint of shame in his expression. When McKay looked up and saw Johnny watching him, the familiar scowl settled back into place. Johnny smirked, mollified, and let his temper fade.

“At any rate, no harm done,” McKay said, his voice gruff. “I couldn’t allow you to take in lodgers, in any case.”

“It’s them or starve,” said Johnny, settling into the chair at the writing desk.

“Not at all!” McKay smiled. “As is usual, my genius has found a solution to the problem at present. _You_ are going to write a _book!_ ”

Johnny’s eyes widened. “A _book?_ ” He stood up and crossed over to stand in front of the ghost. “I can’t possibly!”

“Why not?”

“I find it difficult enough to write a _postcard_ , let alone a letter – let alone a _book_.”

“Perhaps you can’t, but _I_ can,” said McKay with a smug grin. “ _I_ can certainly write a book. A bevy of lengthy articles and reports during my scientific career, submission after submission to scientific journals… why, there’s nothing to it! I can write a book… and _you_ can put it down on paper for me. Together, we’ll get it written, and you can use the proceeds to purchase Gull Cottage away from Kavanaugh and my brat sister.”

Johnny took two steps back and sat down on the other armchair, directly atop his outerwear. He was heedless of the wrinkles he was crushing into the fabric in his hurry to get seated before his knees gave out. “But, what would the book be about?”

The smug grin widened. “Me! The story of my life.”

“The life of a scientist?” Johnny murmured, leaning back in the chair to let his long legs sprawl out.

“Think back to what I hinted at of my adventures with Sir Richard Burton,” McKay reminded him. “In addition to gallivanting about with him, I was on a lifelong search for the fabled city of Atlantis!”

Johnny blinked. “Atlantis?”

“Atlantis,” McKay confirmed. “I followed clues all over the planet. I’d learned at the last that the final clue was in Antarctica. I was planning the final expedition when I died so inopportunely.”

Sheppard hummed and weaved his head from side-to-side in thought.

“Do stop that,” the ghost commanded. “You look like a drunken ostrich.”

“How the devil would _you_ know what one looks like?”

“Richard and I got up to some nonsense in a zoo once.”

Johnny snickered at the mental image that response provoked. After a moment, he sobered with a sigh and said, “It takes months to write a book. What are we to live on in the meantime?”

“Do you have jewelry?”

“A little of my own, and Elizabeth’s. I’m holding it for when Anna grows up.”

“That’s nice; pawn it.”

Johnny sat up, his eyes narrowing. “I beg your pardon, McKay?”

“Confound it, Major, will you not understand?” the ghost crabbed. “You’re trying to flog a half-dead nag! You honestly cannot _afford_ to be squeamish!”

“I cannot break faith with a promise I made to Elizabeth,” Johnny said coldly. “She asked me on her deathbed that her jewelry go to her daughter.”

McKay grimaced.

“I’m willing to part with my own things,” Johnny conceded, “but not Elizabeth’s things.”

“Strange sentiments from a man who didn’t love his wife.”

Sheppard glared furiously at the ghost.

McKay sighed and waved a hand dismissively. “I know, I know; you were _fond_ of her and that sufficed.”

“Yes, it did,” Johnny growled. “And I _do_ love my daughter!”

“Yes, well, of course you do,” the ghost muttered, uncomfortable. “Fine, then; pawn _your_ things. Start with that ugly tie pin.”

Johnny sat back again, touching his fingers to the tie pin holding a silk tie to his shirt. He’d always thought that when the jeweler had designed it, the man had been half-blind or fully loaded on drink.

“Elizabeth’s mother gave this to me,” he murmured, thoughtful even as he stroked the ugly pin.

“All the more reason to get rid of it. You don’t like Elizabeth’s mother and you like her gifts even less.”

Johnny snorted. “Really, Doctor McKay… my mother-in-law isn’t as bad as all _that_.”

“Really? Then, feel free to pack up and go home to her. You’ll no doubt find yourself engaged to the poisonous Eva in no time, if only to make Mrs. Weir cease sobbing for a few minutes.”

Johnny grimaced. He stroked the tie pin again. “I think I can get about five dollars for it.”

McKay smirked. “I’m glad you’ve decided to be sensible. And, since we’re to be collaborators, you may call me Rodney.”

Johnny cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not Meredith?”

The ghost scowled darkly. “Not on pain of _your_ death!”

Sheppard laughed. “Oh, don’t fuss, McKay. You don’t look at all like a ‘Meredith’.”

“I’m glad you agree with me on _that_ much, at least,” the ghost sniffed. “Fine, then; I am to be Rodney and I shall call you… John.”

The living man blinked. “My nickname from friends is Johnny.”

“I told you once you’d not hear that name from me. You won’t. You’re a retired Army Major, a father, and a man of nearly thirty years. For all your lackadaisical slouching and sly quips, you’ve a quiet and steady dignity. ‘Johnny’ simply doesn’t suit you.”

“That… thank you,” Sheppard murmured, and smiled. “…Rodney.”

The ghost grinned at him.

Johnny – no, John, now – sighed and let his head settle back against the chair. “Why are we writing about your life?”

“I considered having you take dictation of the theories I’ve come up with since I died, but…”

John shook his head. “No, please. I’m good with numbers, but I’m hardly a _scientist_. No one in the scientific community would accept any papers I submit once they asked around.”

“Precisely,” Rodney murmured. “So, we’ll write about my life and call it… _In Search of Atlantis: Memoirs of an Explorer and Scientist_.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“It’s not meant to be; it’s meant to be sensational – like the subject!”

John leveled an amused gaze on the ghost. Rodney snorted and crossed his arms over his chest as he lifted his chin in pugnacious challenge.

“Alright,” John muttered, grinning. “If that’s what you want written, we’ll get it written – but it had better be spicy enough for the consumer public’s taste!”

Rodney grinned back. “Oh, it shall be. Sex, drugs, and life-endangering explorations of foreign lands and concepts…? It will be a fantastic tale that will keep even the most virginal spinster on the edge of his or her seat.”

John laughed aloud, thoroughly amused.

 

*~*~*

 

A week later, John sat at the writing desk that had been moved up to his bedroom. An old Hammond typewriter sat in front of him and sheets of loose paper lay scattered about on the desktop; handwritten notes of the parts of Rodney’s life that had already been dictated.

The ghost himself was pacing around, giggling occasionally as he read what John was typing on the clunky, C-shaped device. He leaned over John’s left shoulder to read the words appearing on the paper, giggled again, and moved away to go to the telescope platform. Rodney took hold of the telescope and peered through it. He was in the process of adjusting it toward a star when the sound of silence intruded on his awareness.

He turned and found John slouching back in his chair, frowning at the typewriter. Thinking something might be wrong, he went back to peer at the paper and frowned. “You haven’t finished the sentence.”

“It’s that word,” John muttered, still scowling.

“It’s a perfectly serviceable word.”

“It’s _crass_ , is what it is!”

“Oh, listen to the retired _Army Major_ getting squeamish at the use of a little vulgarity.” Rodney gestured a hand at the paper. “It means what it says, doesn’t it?”

“All too clearly,” John replied, his tone sour.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“My daughter will eventually read this book. I’d rather she not read something vulgar that she knows _I_ wrote!”

“Why don’t you swaddle the poor girl and stuff her in a storage chest if you won’t let her be exposed to life? If she’s all that delicate that she can’t accept her father knowing _that word_ and any others like it…”

Sheppard bared his teeth at Rodney in a soundless snarl.

“Listen, John: this is a very frank story about a very frank man. We want it to sell, don’t we? I’ll not let you coat it – coat _me_ – with genteel mollycoddling.”

“Yes, we want it to sell… but how well will it do in polite society? Your fellow scientists are a small sample of the human population,” John countered.

Rodney snorted. “Then, what word would _you_ use to convey that meaning?”

John grimaced. “Fornicate; you, being an unmarried man, would be a fornicator.”

“Fine, use that, but don’t take any more of the real me away. This is meant to be an unvarnished tale!”

“It certainly _is_ unvarnished,” John said, and smirked as he typed the word to finish the sentence. “The things I’ve learned since you began dictating to me!”

Rodney laughed as he walked over to the bed. He hitched up a leg to rest one knee and hip on the bed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Speaking of which,” he said, and watched John pick up a soft lead pencil and the latest sheaf of paper serving as his notepad. “Now, at this point, after having a drink to steel myself for an hour spent in unpleasant company, I went upstairs—“

“Why?” John interrupted.

“Why what?”

“Why did you go upstairs?”

Rodney gave the living man a startled look. “Do I really have to _explain_ fornication to you, John?”

Sheppard snorted. “Hardly. But… if you knew you wouldn’t _enjoy_ the interlude, why suffer through it?”

“Because even bad sex can be good sex when the urge is upon the flesh. As a man, you should know that.”

John grimaced. “You must have been very young and foolish.”

“I was young, but never foolish,” Rodney retorted, his tone snappish. “Inexperienced, perhaps. Curious, of course, more than most young men are. I was eager for knowledge and adventure.” Rodney smiled. “I matured early.”

“I wish I’d known you then,” John remarked, smiling sadly at the ghost. “You died two years before I was born.”

Rodney made a rough sound, but didn’t actually say anything.

“During this interlude… how old were you, Rodney?”

Rodney’s smirk widened. “I was sixteen years of age.”

“Only sixteen,” John murmured, shaking his head. “I suppose you’d run away.”

“Mmmm. My sister and I were orphans, brought up by a maiden aunt. My sister was two years older and had been on the verge of finishing her schooling when a young Professor of Literature swept her off her feet into marriage and motherhood when _she_ was sixteen. A singular waste of a fine mind, I tell you. You know, many professors’ wives are the brains behind their husbands’ writings – but Jeannie’s fine, mathematical mind was wasted on a man of _literature_. Still, with my sister settled, there was nothing to keep me there and I headed off to university and science just before my fourteenth birthday.” Rodney shook his head. “Now, let’s get on with it. Where was I?”

John once again took up his pencil and cocked an eyebrow at the ghost. “Upstairs.”

“Ah, yes! Now, then, with Radek Zelenka having disappeared with his own company to keep, I was on my way to mine. The customs of Marseilles are different to—“

“Different _from_.”

Rodney fixed an irritable glare at John. “Is that what they teach you in the United States Army? How to beat the enemy into submission through the use of proper grammar?”

John stuck his tongue out at the ghost and received the gesture in return. The pair of them paused, and then snickered in companionable amusement.

Shaking his head, John turned sideways in the chair and draped his right leg over his left. The long limb dangled down over the edge of the chair loosely while he braced his elbow on the hardwood back of the chair and his cheek against his fist.

“I think it would be nice if we included a chapter of your early life,” John said, grinning. “Offer up a comparison of the young, briefly innocent genius against the young, nowhere-near-innocent genius that you became.”

Rodney smirked. “That briefly innocent period was brief indeed.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“I didn’t, until university. The local vicar schooled me and my sister.”

“Poor man,” John laughed. “He must have had a dreadful time.”

“He enjoyed _every_ minute of it,” Rodney countered, still smirking. “Why shouldn’t he? It was _me_ he was educating.”

“No small amount of conceit in you, McKay!”

“Why should there be? Mine was a mind of unparalleled brilliance! Well, it _still_ is, but the world isn’t ready for proven spectral inhabitants.”

“Psychics and palm-readers?”

“Charlatans and parlor-snakes, the lot of them!”

John snorted. “The vicar?”

“As I said: he enjoyed the opportunity to tutor me and my sister. Well… until Jeannie put a snake in his bed.”

“Your _sister_ did that?”

“You don’t think _I_ was going to touch the nasty thing, do you? It could have bitten me! Why, it would have been just my luck to be allergic to the thing’s bite like I am – was – to bees and citrus. I could have swollen up, stopped breathing, and died!”

“How on Earth did you make it to thirty-seven if you were so squeamish of the world’s creatures? How did you go adventuring if you were so leery?”

“When one knows what to keep an eye out for, it’s easy enough to make one’s way through the world!”

“But _not_ knowing… isn’t that what it was all about?”

Rodney gave John a nasty glare. “I can tell what _you_ were like as a child: a horrid little boy! You’ve not changed much since then!”

John smirked. “I’ve changed enough where it counts.”

“Ha!” Rodney got up and paced over to the telescope. “What were _you_ like at sixteen?”

John frowned and got up. He tucked his cozy robe tighter around his torso. “I was hot-headed; a know-it-all. My mother had died when I was a toddler and my father was strict with myself and my brother. He was determined I would be a banker, given my talent for numbers. I would make money and a name for myself; a silent partner in Sheppard Horse Farms, but not _too_ silent. I would enhance Patrick Sheppard’s standing throughout the entire east coast – never mind Virginia. But that wasn’t what _I_ wanted. I knew there was more out there than shackling myself to a banker’s desk. I knew I was meant for greater things than slowly congealing into a leather wingback and kissing the pampered backsides of potential clients. So, I ran away to join the Army, leaving my brother David to carry on. I got a letter from my father not long after. He told me that if I didn’t return by June of that year, I would be disowned… and so I was.”

Rodney came to stand by him. “Mmmm. That must have been something: a fat little youth, trotting up to the recruiting officer—“

“I wasn’t fat! I was skinny,” John corrected, scowling. “Just because I came from a wealthy family doesn’t mean I overindulged!”

“Just as bad,” Rodney muttered, ignoring the outrage in Sheppard’s protest. “A sixteen-year-old? Nothing but long and lanky sticks for limbs, tripping over your feet like the most newborn foal.”

John snorted a laugh. “You aren’t far from the mark, McKay.”

Rodney warmed to the theme. “Mmmm; lanky, coltish… that wayward thatch of cowlicks atop your head masquerading as hair and a thousand freckles.” He leaned a little closer; looked John’s face over. “You still… uh… you still have some.”

“Only a few,” John replied, his voice lowering. “I’ve been told they’re attractive.”

“That they are,” Rodney agreed.

The two of them went still as their gazes met in recognition of the moment and the sentiment.

The moment was broken when the ship’s clock on the mantel dinged the hour. John blinked as he turned to look at it. As he did so, Rodney stepped as far away from the other man as possible on the telescope platform.

“Eleven o’clock,” John muttered, and covered a yawn. “I had no idea it was so late.”

“Yes,” Rodney agreed. “You’d best get some sleep. We’ll put in a full day tomorrow.”

John went around the room, blowing out gaslights. He left the one by his bed for last and then turned toward Rodney, who stood on the telescope platform still. “Rodney… what did your aunt and your sister do when you ran away?”

Rodney snorted. “My sister was far too wrapped up in her new roles of wife and mother. My aunt… oh, she probably cursed a blue streak and then thanked her favored deity that I was no longer around to scorch her furniture and ruin her carpets with experiments, or drag stray kittens into her nice clean house to sully it with their fleas and trickery.”

John smiled. “Did she write you?”

Rodney smiled back. “Every day for seven years. I was somewhere in India when she died.”

John said nothing as he leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze distant with thought.

“What are you thinking, John?” the ghost asked, curious and quiet.

“Just thinking of how lonely she must have been with her clean house and unmarked furniture,” Sheppard murmured.

When the only reply he received was a cool breeze, John looked over and found that Rodney had vanished while leaving a balcony door open ‘just in case,’ as usual. He smiled, resigned to Rodney’s paranoia about accidents with the gas-heater. The evening wasn’t too chilly; a sign that summer would soon be upon them in only another month or so.

Tired, John tidied up his notes, tucked them under the typewriter, and finally went to bed.

 

*~*~*~*


	4. It's Another Demand for Payment of the Rent.

Teyla breathed deeply as she pedaled up the last of the dirt road and around to the back of Gull Cottage. Gathering her purchases from the bicycle's basket, she hurried up the flagstone path to where John was sitting tiredly on a bench out on the patio, warming himself in the late spring sunshine.

"Saw that Kavanaugh down in the village," she said, withdrawing an envelope from an inner jacket pocket. "He gave me this for you."

John took it with a small smile. "Thank you, Teyla." He sighed and confessed without even reading it, "It's another demand for payment of the rent."

"He did say something about sending the bailiffs to put us out," she agreed.

John sighed again and tipped his head back, his eyes closed.

Teyla’s brow wrinkled as she looked at him worriedly. She could see for herself that he was exhausted. His skin color was not healthy enough to suit her and there were dark circles under his eyes. He’d visibly lost weight. She’d feared that perhaps he’d started up another bout with Yellow Fever, but he’d denied it; said he’d begun a project that would hopefully end their money troubles. She’d found his notes later and concluded he was writing a story. She’d not figured him for the creative writing sort, but it was something he had dedicated himself to. It was too bad that the project was clearly ruining his health.

She was silent for a few more moments, and then offered, "I've got a little money put by, John. There hasn't been anything to spend it on, here."

Sheppard grinned, the expression weary. "Thank you, Teyla, but I wouldn't dream of taking it. Have no fear; we’ll be alright."

“I hate to say it, but perhaps your—?”

John made a sharp motion with his hand, glaring at her. “I am _not_ going to go crawling to my father, Teyla!”

“Not even for Anna’s sake?”

“There is no possible way he missed the announcement of my marriage to Elizabeth and the subsequent birth of my daughter,” John growled. “Both were in _The Richmond Times_ at the time. He’s known for years now that I provided him with another grandchild – and he’s made not one single attempt to contact Anna. If he can’t be bothered to acknowledge her, I won’t do away with my pride to beg on her behalf; not if I can’t be certain it would do any good at all.”

"Yes, sir," Teyla said quietly, and turned away to walk into the house to feed Jack, going right past the silent and – to her – invisible Rodney McKay.

John watched her go, and then closed his eyes again as the ghost approached, making no sound as he walked.

“Kavanaugh’s paltry attempts at intimidation are unimportant,” Rodney declared. “Pay it no mind.”

“What if he _does_ send the bailiffs to put us out? He hasn’t the guts to do it himself, but he’ll send others in his place.”

“Aye, and has before,” Rodney agreed. “I handled them then, I’ll handle them now – if he manages to do it at all.”

Something in the ghost’s tone caught John’s attention and he cracked open his eyes. “What have you done?”

“Nothing – yet. I will if he starts eviction proceedings.” Rodney scowled down toward the tiny village set below the house. “I’m keeping an ear on him.”

“Just don’t kill him.”

“Heavens, no! He’d probably hang around for sheer spite and then I’d never have a moment’s peace ever again.”

John snorted and closed his eyes again. “Maybe… maybe if I’d taken his offer…”

“ _Never_.”

The furious growl brought John wide awake. He was startled to find McKay’s bright blue eyes fixed intently on him. The ghost stood in a position that indicated how protective McKay felt. They held gazes for a few moments, and then Rodney looked away to glare down at the small village of Pugwash again.

John sighed and closed his eyes again. He grimaced at the memory of Kavanaugh making it clear that he found John exceedingly attractive during one of their meetings when John had gone to ask for an extension of time for rent payment. Kavanaugh had, at first, been willing to grant financial leniency to Sheppard… in exchange for sexual favors from the younger man. John had very nearly killed Kavanaugh on the spot for the insult. He’d escaped when items in the office suddenly started leaping about the office; breakable items smashing against the wall or the desk as Kavanaugh had ducked away, hiding himself while shouting and begging for the destruction to stop.

Rodney had made it clear he hadn’t taken well to Kavanaugh’s shameless solicitation, either.

“John.”

Opening his eyes, Sheppard found Rodney leaning over him. The ghost’s face was mere inches from his own and John’s breath caught at the tenderness he would have sworn was in the other man’s gaze. For an instant, Rodney seemed about to say something, suggest something, _ask_ … but the moment passed and he offered a lopsided grin instead.

“On your feet, soldier,” Rodney ordered, his voice gruff but not unkind. “There’s only one chapter left to do.”

John smiled, but it was reflex rather than genuine emotion. “I’m tired, McKay. I can barely see straight, think straight…”

“Let me do the thinking for you. You see well enough to take down the notes and then catch some shut-eye. Within the week, we should be finished entirely.”

The living man gave a wordless murmur, beginning to slip into a doze.

“ _John_.”

Cold against his face; shocking cold, like grabbing an unprotected iron bar in the dead of winter. John’s eyes flew open again and he shuddered as he watched Rodney’s hand pull away from him. He realized the ghost had merely pressed his palm to his cheek in a gentle touch, but that touch was more than enough to remind him that Rodney couldn’t get tired – but neither could he spend time and energy to write his own book.

“Come, John,” Rodney murmured, transparent with the effort of touching him. “Just a little further.”

Shivering – from the touch and for other reasons – John hauled his weary body up off the decorative patio bench and made his way inside.

Rodney watched him go, and then faded away to wait for the living man upstairs rather than waste energy walking.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“…of a great city that sank under the ocean. The manuscript, citing the location as ‘Proclarush Taonas’, declared this great lost city to be in the region of _Terra Australis_ – that which cartographer John George Bartholomew has recently named ‘Antarctica’ in his survey for the British Crown of that frozen southern landmass. The passage ‘gate of the stars’ may refer to the reflection of the stars in the night sky in the vast depths of the cold waters at the bottom of the world. In any case—“

“What does it mean?” John interrupted, looking up from his notes.

Rodney, thrown off his stride, blinked and stuttered, “It – I – it… what? What does _what_ mean?”

“’Proclarush Taonas’; what does it mean?”

Rodney frowned. “It… uh. Well, the nearest translation I could get was ‘Lost in Fire’, but the young man that did it at the time – while undeniably brilliant – was also something of a quack amongst scientists. For instance: he had a very odd theory that the pyramids of Egypt had been created by alien peoples that visited this planet.”

John blinked, and then snorted a laugh.

Rodney snapped his fingers several times and pointed at him. “See? That was the _kindest_ reaction to his crackpot theory he could have received. He was laughed out of every field of science; disappeared, actually, in the midst of being ostracized. Even I have no idea where he went; whether or not he died. He was simply gone between one day and the next.”

“No one ever wondered about him? Worried about him?” John asked, frowning a little.

“Quite a few people, actually, as Daniel was rather a sweet and charming young man. He rarely had a bad word to say about anyone, he was generous and kind and compassionate…” Rodney sighed. “In temperament, he was the complete opposite of myself.”

John sat up, hearing an odd tone in his friend’s voice. “Rodney…”

“He was a _flake_ , scientifically,” Rodney continued, his voice firmer, “but as a man, I can think of or know few better.” He said this with a glance at John before looking away again.

Sheppard smiled, taking the compliment. “Why, thank you, kind sir.” He blinked, then; startled at a memory that surfaced. “Wait! Daniel Jackson?”

Rodney turned to him, surprised. “You met him?”

John shook his head. “No, but I heard _of_ him while I served in the Army. My commanding officer had given me a chewing out for my tendency to buck orders I didn’t agree with. He’d likened me to another soldier he once knew. He said I was just like a man named Jack O’Neill – that’s who the dog is named after – but with less of O’Neill’s greatness and charm. I asked around and found that Colonel Jack O’Neill had been hurt badly by the loss of a scientist friend of his and had resigned his commission to go searching for Dr. Jackson.”

Rodney tapped his fingers against his lips and stared off into the distance. “Hmmm. I recall Daniel telling me of an odd friendship he’d struck up with a soldier; a tall man with sandy hair and an odd sense of humor, with an appalling addiction to sweets and sporting events. I wish I’d paid more attention, but really: Daniel had gone on and on and on, and I had better things to do with my time than listen to a young man in love.”

“Do you really think he was?” John asked, his voice quiet.

“Certainly. Sweet and charming though Daniel was, he was an orphan of archaeologists and was brought up in the wilds of Cairo. He learned how to hustle the unwary and to insult the uncouth in at least twenty-three languages. For all that, when he loved, he went soft and warm in a way that made others melt. When he spoke of his friend... I confess to rather a few wicked thoughts in regard to young Jackson.”

John grinned. “Pray keep them to yourself. The confessions already loaded into the book will barely pass for acceptable as is.”

Rodney snorted. “You Americans... ha! Future generations are going to grow up thinking the people of the Victorian era were a bunch of missish prudes terrified to show their ankles!”

Affecting an expression of wide-eyed innocence, John teased, “You mean they _weren’t?_ ”

The ghost laughed and gave the living man a lascivious glance. “My dear Major, if I told you even _half_ the sexual escapades that went on while I was alive by society at large, your ridiculous hair would burst into flame.”

John laughed. Seeing McKay’s amusement at the awkward sound, he quickly smothered the noise and then pointed at his friend. “If the people of your time weren’t prudes, then why do you denounce them as such?”

“Not as _sexual_ prudes – though you Americans certainly qualify – but as a people uninterested in advancement! Most are perfectly content to accept the mundane as the setting for their lives. It is thanks to scientists that humans have evolved at all!”

“I hardly think humanity is a lost cause, McKay.”

“Not entirely, no.”

The two men shared an amused grin. When the moment had gone too long, when the grin had softened towards something else, Rodney cleared his throat and paced away to stare out of the balcony windows.

“Back to the chapter,” he ordered, resolutely focusing on the ocean outside and not John’s reflection in the glass. “In any case… oh, hell’s bells and little fishes! Where was I?”

“Something about ‘gates of the stars’ and how the night sky reflection in the ocean could be the meaning for that turn of phrase.”

“Ah, yes! In any case, it was clear to me that all signs were pointing in one direction: to the end of the world…”

 

*~*~*~*

 

“’To all who follow their heart’s desire; for men and women unwilling to settle for what is and instead yearn for what might be; to all those who feel there is more for them in life than premeditated shackles of mediocrity slapped upon them by the uncurious and the uncaring… I dedicate this volume. The End.’”

“’The End’,” John echoed, and typed those words into the final page with great pleasure before slouching back in his chair, grinning tiredly.

Rodney grinned with him. “Well done, John! Tonight, you will sleep. Get as much rest as possible, because tomorrow…? Ah, tomorrow, you take our manuscript to the publisher!”

Sheppard yawned to the point his jaw audibly cracked. Grimacing, he rubbed at the joints, his fingers rasping over the dark stubble adorning his cheeks. He slumped down again and fixed the ghost with an irritable glare. “They had better like this manuscript or I will _end_ them.”

Rodney snickered. “If there were any proof needed that you’ve spent too long cooped up with me, then that statement would be evidence enough. Relax, John – the book will be published.”

“Logically, I agree with you. What a tale! Adventure, intrigue, scandal, and chock full of research material that any true scientist will recognize if they’ve been exposed to it before.”

“You might get more than a few letters from former colleagues wondering how you could possibly have known about ‘that’.”

John gave a mischievous grin. “Tragically, there was a small accident with a candle just after I’d found your old journals….”

Rodney snickered again.

“Which publisher am I to take it to?”

“Caldwell and Sumner; a pair of old warhorses. Make sure you take it to Caldwell. Sumner is just that much more of a stickler for unwavering obedience and will not deal well with you. Even if he doesn’t know of your record of service, he will not take well to seeing you slouch about and that hair of yours. Caldwell, while a man who gives every evidence of having a rather large stick up his backside, is not entirely unreasonable. He cares more for doing the right thing than following the proper chain of command. He was once the guard for a scientific exploration team and found them and their subject of study interesting enough to become attached beyond mere protection detail. And I’m certain he’ll at least refrain from mentioning your ridiculous hair.”

“You wish you had hair enough for it to _be_ ridiculous.”

Rodney lifted his chin. “Hardly.”

“Whatever. Caldwell’s opinion of my _hair_ doesn’t matter: only his opinion of the book. Overall, I think it’s a very wise book.”

The ghost snorted. “It has elements of wisdom; the cleaned and polished presentation to the public of life-lessons learned. The lift itself was not perhaps lived wisely, but it was a thoroughly enjoyed life. That, I think, is the true meaning of life – the answer to the question philosophers have pondered for ages. To live a life that is full and makes a person happy before he or she dies… that is all that is needed; nothing more, nothing less.”

“As I said: wise.”

“Death has a way of giving life perspective. You as a soldier should know that already.”

John snorted and got up from his chair. He stretched until his back cracked, and then ambled over to the telescope platform. He stepped out onto the fog-shrouded balcony, shivering a bit at the cool mist that clung to him. He sensed Rodney following him out, but kept his gaze trained on the ocean that was somewhere out in the impenetrable wall of fog.

“Why did you write the book, McKay?” John asked, curious. “It wasn’t merely to save the house.”

“Hardly,” Rodney replied. “It’s for you.”

John turned his head to look at the other man. He frowned a little to see the fog so obviously drifting _through_ the ghost.

“It’s for you,” Rodney murmured, “and for the scientists you’ll leave it to in your Will.”

John arched an eyebrow. “What scientists?”

“ _Any_ scientists; any that need a home in which to work; in which to conduct research and write papers and _think_ without society and politics pressing in on them.”

John nodded, accepting that fact. He gave a quiet chuckle. “Do you suppose the ghost of a soldier will come and find the scientist that stays here after I’m gone?”

“So long as it isn’t yours.” At Sheppard’s look of surprise, Rodney clarified: “I stayed because of resentment and reluctance to move on; bitter at my ending. I hope… I hope that when your time comes, John, you have no such bitterness, no such resentment.”

John nodded and locked his hands around the iron railing that lined the balcony. The metal was cold and gritty against his skin, but it was _real_ and _solid_ – two things he wouldn’t feel were he to give in to his urge to take hold of Rodney for a kiss the ghost couldn’t give or receive.

Rodney, looking at the living man, could easily discern what John wanted and was feeling. The resentment he’d mentioned rose up and threatened to burn him out of existence. _Damn it all_ that he died too soon; that he was _born_ too soon! Even had he lived, he’d have been too old by now for a man as young and lovely as John Sheppard. Never mind that he’d have still been living at Gull Cottage and it would not have been up for rent. He knew what he’d been trending toward as an old man: hair exceedingly receded if not gone entirely; pudgy and wrinkled and more cantankerous than ever. No, he’d died in the end of his prime… but he _had_ died. John wanted him, but couldn’t have him… and neither could _he_ have _John_.

The two men stood side-by-side, looking out into the dark and the fog in silence. As they stood there, the Pugwash foghorn sounded out of the darkness, bellowing a warning.

“Ship out there,” John murmured unnecessarily. “Too close from the sound of it.”

“Mmmm.”

“It’s the loneliest sound,” Sheppard continued. “Like… I don’t know. Like a child, I’d say; lost and crying in the dark for help.”

“He’s lost, alright, is that captain,” agreed Rodney. “Lost and cursing a blue streak, wondering why he ever bothered to go to sea instead of opening a grocer’s shop like a sensible man.”

John blinked and continued to look out into the foggy night. “You can hear him?”

“I can hear whatever I choose. If the ship gets too close, I’ll go out and nudge it in the right direction. As I said: I don’t want ghostly company.”

“A wonder that you accepted _any_ company.”

“Some company is better than others.”

John made a low sound and tightened his grip on the railing.

“Fog in the channel is treacherous,” Rodney continued. “I’d rather face a storm straight on. Those, at least, can be outrun.”

“Still… it’s honest, the sea,” John said, his voice rough. “It makes you face things honestly.”

McKay was silent for a moment. Then, he said, “There’s something on your mind. Out with it, Major.”

John sighed. “What’s to become of us, Rodney? Of you and me?”

“Nothing can become of me,” the ghost replied, his voice low and quiet. “Everything that can happen _has_ happened.”

“Not to me,” Sheppard replied. “When we were writing that book… I felt… connected; like we were a team, pulling in tandem toward a common goal and knowing that you were there beside me. Now… when I try to imagine the future… it’s like trying to look into the fog. I see the fog itself, but nothing inside; no details.”

Rodney said nothing for a while. Finally, he shook his head and said, “You’ve been cooped up here with me for too long. You need a change of scenery.”

“But I love it here!”

“Perhaps a little too much. You belong out in the world, John… _meeting_ people.”

John straightened up from his slouch against the railing. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve no wish to _meet_ people.”

“You should, though. You’re still alive, John; still alive and warm. Too, you’re a confoundedly attractive man – or hadn’t you noticed? Really, my dear friend: you owe it to yourself to seek someone who will be warm when they touch you.”

In that moment, something broke inside of John. He didn’t know if it was his heart or his hopes, but either way: Rodney McKay had effectively dashed that something. In a few sentences, he’d cemented that as a ghost – as a _ghost_ – he could not make use of John’s attractiveness. No matter what _emotions_ the ghost might feel, physically, there was nothing there… and never would be.

Steeling his heart against disappointment, John forced a friendly smile on his face. He nodded and said, “I understand, Rodney.”

“I knew you would,” Rodney replied, looking away from him.

John walked past the ghost to the open balcony door. He paused to look back and found Rodney looking after him. Their gazes met.

“Goodnight,” John offered, showing his willingness to be friends if that was all they could have.

“Goodnight,” Rodney returned, offering a small smile and a nod.

His spine and shoulders stiff, John stepped into his bedroom. He left the door open as a symbolic gesture.

But still, he did not hear Rodney’s quiet “My dear” follow after his farewell.

 

*~*~*~*

 

The next day, John put on a smart suit and a hat and caught a lift to the Pugwash Junction from a neighbor heading that way. From there, he took the train to Halifax and asked the station manager, when he arrived, where the publisher’s offices were located. He tipped the man for his help and made his way through Halifax to the building he’d been directed to. As he headed along the sidewalk toward the front doors of the three-floor building, he smiled at an elderly man and his dog doing tricks and politely declined a bunch of flowers from a woman selling them.

Making his way inside, he shut the door and then ascended the staircase toward the second floor where he’d been informed Caldwell’s office would be. He was so intent on mentally rehearsing how he would greet a fellow veteran of Caldwell’s standing that he never noticed the young woman descending the staircase, passing to his left. He never noticed as she stepped down onto the floor, turned to look after him, and then climbed the stair in pursuit of him.

John located the offices of Caldwell and Sumner, he opened the door and stepped in, swinging the door shut blindly behind him… again, never noticing as the young woman quickly blocked the motion and followed him inside.

Walking over to the enquiries desk where a young clerk waited, lounging indolently on crossed arms, John smiled and said, “I would like to see Colonel Caldwell, please.”

The young clerk ignored him to focus on the woman. “I see you’ve returned, Shrimati Sar.”

“Obviously, Mr. Bates,” the woman – now standing to John’s left – replied. She never looked away from the tall, black-haired man.

“Are you prepared to wait, then?” Bates asked her.

“Forever, if I must,” she murmured, still looking at John with hungry intensity.

Insulted at being so thoroughly ignored, Sheppard repeated, “I would like to see Colonel Caldwell, please.”

Catching Sheppard’s tone, Bates the clerk refocused his attention on John. With a hard look and a faint smirk, he said, “Can’t see Colonel Caldwell without an appointment.”

“But… I have a manuscript!”

“So you have a manuscript,” Bates retorted, openly smirking now. “ _Most_ unusual.”

“No more so than your hideous manners,” the woman said, interrupting John when he drew in a breath to snap at the paid help. Bates glanced at her. “Take the gentleman’s name.”

With obvious reluctance, Bates pulled an appointment card from a cubbyhole and picked up his pen. “Leave your name.”

“Major John Sheppard.” John’s tone was frosty, but polite.

“Major…” the woman echoed with a blush of excitement on her pretty face.

“ _Major_ John Sheppard,” John repeated for Bates’ benefit, just in case the man hadn’t understood. “Retired. Gull Cottage, Pugwash.” Seeing the clerk finish the information, he added: “Please; I’m not trying to be an inconvenience, but it’s a very long way by train from Pugwash to Halifax. Might I please have a moment of Colonel Caldwell’s time?”

A bell rang, then, and Bates excused himself without answering Sheppard’s question.

Frustrated, John walked away to a row of bookshelves to peruse the titles there. After a few moments, a husky female voice intruded on his thoughts.

“Is it a tale of war horrors? Or a book of patriotism?”

Turning, John looked at the woman speaking to him. She was petite; slender, but with a defined bosom. Her hair was brown with hints of red and her eyes were brown. Her skin was darker than he would have expected from a woman living so far north. But hadn’t the clerk addressed her as Shrimati Sar? That wasn’t a Western name. Then again, her voice held a British accent. If John had to guess, he’d say she was from the British Indies.

“You’re trying to give me a hint,” she said, smiling just a little. “Does it have something to do with ice…?”

Nonplussed, John didn’t really know what to say to the young woman.

Her smile widened as she came closer. John blinked as he smelled the faintest hint of something sweet without being cloying. The scent was almost delicious and made him feel warm.

“Is it really so important for you to see old Caldwell?” she asked Sheppard.

“I… yes.” He tightened his grip on the thick, wax-paper wrapped parcel tucked in the crook of his arm. “It’s… more important than you know.”

“Then, see him you shall,” the woman promised. “It is not merely your good fortune that I am irresponsible, but also unreasonable.”

He gave her a wary look. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“My appointment was for eleven o’clock. I arrived at half-past-ten and refused to wait. I am only here now because I followed _you_ back.”

John’s eyes widened as he realized why this stranger had been so helpful to him thus far. He said nothing, but waited for her next offering.

“You may have my appointment, Major, for which you are _just_ in time,” she concluded.

John offered a smile and a small bow as he said, “That’s very kind of you, madam, but I’m afraid I can’t accept.”

She moved closer and waved a hand dismissively between them. As she did so, that sweet smell that was _really_ making John’s mouth water became a little stronger.

“My dear young Major,” she said, her voice a rolling purr of consonants and vowels, “if you would set aside your book of social graces long enough to seize an opportunity that you want very much by merely indulging a small, naturally selfish instinct….”

John arched an eyebrow and grinned. “Without doubt, madam, you are the most forward young lady I have ever met.”

“Oh, I doubt you’ve ever met anyone like me,” she countered, “as I very rarely entertain stuffy notions of propriety. Life is meant to be lived, after all, and not merely endured.”

John blinked, startled.

Before he could say anything, a door nearby opened and Bates emerged through it. “Ms. Sar, Colonel Caldwell will see you, now.” With that, he went back to his post behind the enquiries desk.

Sar grabbed John’s arm and tugged him toward the open door. “Forward!”

“Oh, no, I _couldn’t_ —!” John was startled enough by the strength of her that he tripped forward, stumbling over his own feet, and ended up at the open office door.

“It’s quite all right,” she assured him, smiling, and put her hand to the small of his back.

“No, really—!”

“In you go!”

With one strong shove, John found himself tossed into Caldwell’s office and the door pulling closed behind him.

“Come in, Sar, come in,” said a tall, thin, bald man seated in a sumptuous leather chair. The man was smoking a pipe as he settled a piece of paper atop a pile of others. “Your new book is terrible; the most awful trash I’ve had on my desk since—“

The confusion on Caldwell’s face at seeing John standing there vanished in an instant. At the narrowed, focused glare aimed his way, John instinctively assumed attention stance and held it.

“Who are you?” barked Caldwell. “Who let you in here?”

“I – that is – Sir.” John swallowed hard and tried again. “If you’ll give me a moment, I promise you that I have a manuscript worthy of your time!”

Caldwell powered up from his chair. He was taller than John by an inch or so; not much, in a physical sense, but the sheer power of the man’s personality nearly drove Sheppard back through the door as Caldwell advanced.

“So, you have a manuscript!” Caldwell barked. “How very strange that you should wander in here with a sheaf of paper all bound up in wax paper and string! Let me guess: youngest son of a youngest son, discontented with life, you think you’ve stumbled upon easy living! Well, young man, let me assure you: I may have to publish a load of muck-rakings in order to stay in business, but I don’t have to _read_ it! No, young sir, I do _not!_ ”

Caldwell moved around John, heading toward the closed door of his office.

“Now, I’ll thank you to take your—“

 _”Get back here, you blasted mollygrub!”_

The roar froze Caldwell in his grumbling tracks.

John glanced around, saw nothing of McKay despite hearing him, and then stiffened his spine and lifted his chin, ready to take the heat for the ghost’s impudent bellow.

Slowly, Caldwell turned to look at him. His eyebrows beetled together as he said, “Sir” and clucked his tongue while shaking his head in remonstration.

“Sir,” John said, taking the opening, and saluted perfectly. Seeing Caldwell’s eyes flare wide, he added, “I am Major John Sheppard, retired.”

Caldwell’s expression smoothed out and he looked at John with the expectant look of a superior officer.

“I do apologize for my outburst, sir,” John continued. “I am afraid I allowed my emotions to run away with me. I have… traveled a long way in a short amount of time. I do hope you’ll forgive me. But, sir, this manuscript… it isn’t what you think! It isn’t some fop’s tale resulting from boredom, nor is it yet another militaristic recitation of life as a soldier. This, sir, is the unvarnished tale of a scientist’s life!”

Caldwell came closer to him. “ _Major_ Sheppard, is it?”

“Retired, sir.”

“Mmmm.” Caldwell reached out and took the wrapped manuscript from John. He looked at it for a moment, and then quirked an inquisitive brow at him. “What would a soldier know about scientists?”

“I have learned more than I had ever thought to, sir,” John said truthfully.

Caldwell hummed and wandered past John, looking at the wax-paper bundle in his hands. He paused, and then turned back to look at the younger man. “Unvarnished, you say?”

John nodded.

“Well, perhaps I have time for a few pages, at that,” Caldwell conceded, and settled himself back in his chair behind his desk. As the younger man settled in a chair off to the right side of his desk, Caldwell untied the parcel to reveal neatly typed and sorted pages. “What was your name again, son?”

“John Sheppard.”

Caldwell nodded and began reading.

The first sentence alone sent his eyebrows winging up, a startled laugh escaping him. He glanced over at John, who shrugged, grinned, and glanced away.

Caldwell settled into reading, more happily startled laughs escaping him.

He never noticed the hours trickle away as he got hooked in the story of Rodney McKay's life.

 

*~*~*

 

“I have been waiting here for _three hours_ ,” a middle-aged woman snarled at Bates, utterly furious. “I consider it _outrageous!_ ”

Without waiting for a response from him, she turned and strode for the main door. Flinging it open in a fit of temper, she went through and away, clearly having intended to leave the door standing wide open for Bates to deal with – had it not been for the arrival of Chaya Sar, carrying a thick nylon umbrella in addition to her purse.

She neatly closed the door and then walked over to join Bates at the enquiries desk. “Still in there?” she asked, casting a glance at Caldwell’s office door.

“Mmm,” Bates agreed, casting an appreciative gaze at her that she didn’t see.

“Really?” she said, giving him a coy smile.

He grinned back. By God, he loved the smell of her! “Sent luncheon in at two.”

“ _For_ two?” Chaya asked.

Bates nodded and smiled at her a little more charmingly.

She disappointed him by moving away, though, and taking a seat; clearly lying in wait for Major Sheppard to emerge.

Snorting, Bates went back to processing orders for various manuscripts; approval or rejection.

Inside Caldwell’s office, unaware of what occurred outside, John Sheppard and Stephen Caldwell sat together at a small dining table. While rain poured down unheeded against the windows, and the remains of a sandwich luncheon sat congealed on the table between them, Caldwell sat back in his chair with a satisfied sigh while setting the last page of the manuscript down on the disorganized stack.

Caldwell took a puff on his pipe and gave Sheppard a smile. “You’re not going to pretend _you_ wrote this.”

John leaned back in his chair and hooked one arm over the hardwood back. He gave the other man a lazy smile. “No.”

Caldwell smirked and shook his head. “No, of course not. This is the life of a man who gave himself to science; to the pursuit of theory and discovery, as well as the baser aspects of living! Soldiers such as you and I aren’t men of such nature. We can think, but within a limited scope, whereas scientists….” He laughed and took a draw from his pipe again. “Bless my soul, what a yarn! Is this scientist related to you, somehow, Major?”

John shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Oh, leave off the ‘sir’. We’ve not been in service in a long time, you and I. You may call me Caldwell.”

“Sheppard, then.”

The two men shared an understanding smirk.

Caldwell got to his feet and stretched before moving to pace around his office. John remained where he was, slouched, indolent; waiting and wary.

“This scientist of yours,” the older man said, “I’d very much like to meet him.”

“That won’t be possible,” John said. “He’s already gone.”

“In search of his suspected lost city, I suppose.”

John blinked, and then smiled. “Yes. A very, very long search.”

“Mmm. It’s to be expected. Scientists very rarely give up when they think the solution is within their grasp – to the detriment of all else.”

Sheppard looked closely at the older man. There was a story in that tone and in the expression on Caldwell’s face – but likely not one he’d ever be privy to.

He was proved right as Caldwell flicked away his thoughts as easily as flies, turning to him with a wide smile and an extended hand. John rose to his feet, reaching to clasp the hand offered to him.

“Of course we’ll publish it, Major Sheppard,” Caldwell said, his voice firm. “A tale such as that one…? It will have the reading public hanging on for dear life!”

John’s answering smile was big and bright. “Thank you! Sir, _thank you!_ ”

Caldwell chuckled. “Think nothing of it – but, you’re welcome. Now, you’re empowered by Doctor McKay to act for him?”

“Yes; he’s given me the rights.”

“Good! Well, then, Sheppard – you’ve presented me with a most enjoyable day. Bless my soul, yes; remarkable! Now, you leave everything to me. I’ll see to it that everything is done properly. And as for you: be glad that you know such a man. There aren’t many like him in the world. You can appreciate that, yes?”

John, having been escorted to the office door by Caldwell, nodded. “Yes, sir, I can.”

Caldwell grinned. “I thought so. Well, goodbye, Sheppard, and thank you again.”

“Goodbye, Caldwell – and thank _you_.”

John stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath to center himself, but couldn’t contain the grin that threatened to split the corners of his mouth. Without a glance to either side of him, John strode out of the publisher’s main office.

Bates watched him go, and then said, “Ms. Sar?”

“Coming,” she said, and gracefully rose to her feet.

Without a look at the clerk, she followed John Sheppard out of the office and closed the door behind her.

Bates watched her go and snorted. He silently wished the young Major good luck.

On the sidewalk below, John stood beneath the overhang that protected the door and stared with dismay at the torrential downpour taking place. He hadn’t even noticed that it had begun raining while he’d been in Caldwell’s office!

“It almost reminds one of England in the spring, doesn’t it?”

The husky female drawl beside him startled John. He looked around and found the Sar woman standing beside him. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to England.”

“Oh? And you, a Major in the Army?”

“Stationed in Cuba during the battle for Cuban independence from Spain,” he replied stiffly.

“Oh. How dreadful.”

“Yes, quite.” He recalled his manners and touched his fingers to the brim of his Homburg hat. “How do you do, madam?”

“Somewhat better off than you, at the moment,” she said, and lifted the large umbrella in her hand for him to see.

John grimaced and scowled out at the weather. “I didn’t bargain for this damnable rain!” Seeing the surprise on her face, he moderated his tone. “That is: I’m afraid I will be late and miss the last train for home.”

“Is it so very imperative that you reach home this evening?”

“My daughter, Anna, will fret if I’m not home.”

“Mmmm. I suppose, then, that I could call you a cab…” She stepped closer to him. “…if you asked me nicely.”

Somewhat unsettled by her forwardness, John shifted and prepared to step out into the rain. He’d get soaked walking to the train station, but at least—

Her laugh was low and clear as she caught his arm and jerked him back beneath the safety of the overhang. Then, with the umbrella over her head, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and yowled, “Cabbie!” and let loose a most unladylike and piercing whistle that shocked passersby.

John found himself smothering a laugh, utterly amused by her antics.

A horse-drawn covered cab pulled up within moments – something that had never happened to him before. He could only assume it had something to do with the pretty lady doing the hailing. She walked back to him and John, taking a breath and smelling that lovely fragrance again, decided that there were worse things in the world than to be in the company of a spirited young woman.

The two of them settled into the cab after giving the driver directions to the train station.

“I hope you don’t mind sharing my cab with me,” she said, slumped artfully in a corner of the cab, the wet umbrella settled neatly on the floor.

“No, not at all,” John replied.

They were silent for a few moments, before she said, “The word you’re looking for to describe me is ‘brass’.”

“I actually _hadn’t_ been trying to describe you,” he retorted, but smiled to take the sting out of his words. “Brass?”

“My behavior. Me.” She hitched one shoulder up against the cab wall and grinned at him. “You don’t approve, do you? Or, no – it isn’t that you approve so much as you don’t quite know what to do with me.”

“I’ve _some_ idea,” said John, and then blushed to the tips of his ears.

She laughed gaily. “Oh, dear God! A man who can blush! I’ve not seen anything so charming in… well… in _ever_ , really.”

“Hmmm. Funny, that’s what a friend of mine said not long after he met me.”

“A fellow soldier?”

John laughed. “Hardly.” He shook his head and slouched back into the seat. “Still, I suppose I should say ‘thank you’.”

“For the cab? Think nothing of it.”

“No, for your brass.” He smirked. “Without it, I’d never have gotten in to see Caldwell – and he’s agreed to publish my book.”

“Has he? Excellent! Still, I suppose it’s hardly to be wondered at – two old war dogs such as yourselves.”

“I’m nearly twenty-eight, madam – hardly old!”

She gave him a long, lingering glance from head to knees and back again. “No… I don’t suppose you are.”

John’s mouth went dry.

“If it isn’t a military yarn, then what is it? I hope it isn’t another ‘Life of Byron’.”

John smiled. “No. My book might very well surprise you.”

“It is surprising enough to find an author who is more exciting than his hero could possibly be,” she replied, smiling warmly at him.

Flustered, John coughed and then asked, “Do you write, Miss… um…?”

“Chaya Sar,” she answered him, holding out her hand for him to shake.

He shook hands with her, but frowned. “Chaya? I thought the clerk referred to you as ‘Shrimati’?”

She smiled at him. “A title of respect, like Mister or Missus or Miss… you get the point.”

“Ah, yes, so which—?”

“Yes, I dabble in writing; children’s books, mainly,” she said, then, answering the rest of his earlier question.

Sheppard blinked. “Children’s books? You?”

She gave him a knowing look. “Is there something wrong with that?”

John coughed to cover his embarrassment. “Oh! Um… no, not really. That is… I don’t… you’re not quite like any ‘proper’ young women I’ve met.”

Chaya smiled at him, utterly delighted. “ _Thank_ you, Major Sheppard!”

Caught off-guard by her again, John nodded and offered, “So you write children’s books. I think I might like to see one of them.”

“You probably already have,” Chaya replied, her tone dry with amusement. “I write under the name of ‘Auntie Nettie’.”

John’s mouth dropped open as he turned to face her in surprise. _This_ woman was the famed ‘Auntie Nettie’? “ _You?_ You’re ‘Auntie Nettie’?”

She grinned at him. “Absolutely ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Then your ‘brass’ is nothing but a pose,” he retorted. “You’re adored by half the children in the world.”

“Oh, no,” she murmured. “’Auntie Nettie’ is the pose. Deep in my innermost heart… I loathe the little monsters.”

John snorted. “My daughter is _not_ a monster – and she’ll be over the moon when she finds out I’ve been talking with her favorite author.”

Chaya arched an eyebrow and hitched herself closer across the seat toward John. “I’ll make an exception of your daughter. I’m looking forward to meeting her – and your wife…?”

He wanted to ask ‘What makes you think you’ll meet my daughter?’ but he found himself breathing a little deeper, taking in that beautiful, sweet fragrance again.

“My…” He licked his lips. “My wife is dead.”

“Oh,” Chaya said, frowning a little as she sat back. After a moment, delight appeared on her face. “Oh?”

John shook his head and leaned forward to peer around the back end of the horse that was pulling the cab. “I wish the driver would hurry!”

Chaya settled closer to John, nearly pressed up against him. Her body heat was vivid in the slightly chill interior of the cab.

“There’s no rush now,” she murmured in his ear. “We’ll get there in time.”

Even John, who generally never saw female interest coming, couldn’t have missed the innuendo in _that_ statement even if he’d been dead.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Here! Here’s an empty one!”

John followed Chaya’s light steps across the crowded platform to the open outside door of one of the railway carriages on the last train that would head north. There were other stops along the way, but Pugwash Junction was the end of the line. Most of the other carriages had already been filled and he’d begun to despair until her cry alerted him. The carriage was directly behind the engine, so traveling in it would be steamy and noisy, but it would be blessedly empty and allow him privacy to relax.

He stepped into the carriage and pulled the door shut, latching it closed. He stood there, leaving the window down, and smiled at his rescuer who smiled back at him, her beautiful face alight.

“Well, goodbye, Major Sheppard,” she said. “It was lovely meeting you.”

“Yes,” he replied. “It was nice meeting you, too.”

The engine gave a loud whistle to announce departure and a cloud of steam wafted up, making his eyes sting. Blindly, he dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped away the tears that resulted.

A small, gloved hand settled on his arm. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he said, blinking to clear his vision, and grinned at her. “See? Perfectly fine.”

She gave him another of those long looks from the top of his head downward and back up. “Yes, you are.”

The train lurched into motion and Chaya stepped back even as John braced himself against the carriage door.

“Thank you for all of your help!” he called to her.

“Think nothing of it, Major,” she replied. “Cheer-o!”

John grinned at her use of British slang. He’d always had a fondness for accents of any sort. Elizabeth had spoken with a Boston twang that had drawn him from the first.

The train chuffed and chugged, slowly lugging forward. John remained standing at the carriage window to be polite. Just before the train escaped the station, Chaya ran up and snatched the handkerchief he still held right out of his hand. John was startled at her temerity, but as she flashed him an impish grin, he couldn’t help but laugh. It was flattering to find so unusual a lady lavishing attention on him.

Remembering that it was raining, John put the carriage window up and latched it closed just in time. Rain poured down the outside of the railcar and he settled onto a padded bench with a pleased sigh. It would probably be raining when he got to Pugwash, but he’d be able to borrow weather gear from someone. Even if he couldn’t, even if he had to tromp home through ankle-deep mud and soaked to the bone, he’d get there with a smile on his face. What a day!

The train passed into a tunnel and the inside of the carriage darkened. Lamps were lit for the slender passage ways only, not the carriages. The darkness didn’t bother John overly much.

“ _Cheer-o_.”

The infuriated growl sounding out of the darkness in what was supposedly an empty railcar _did_ make him flinch.

The train emerged from the tunnel and watery daylight once again filled the carriage, revealing Rodney sitting on the seat beside him. The ghost sat cocked on one hip, his arms crossed over his chest, and he was scowling viciously.

“Oh,” John said, and slouched into the corner with a smirk. “You’ve been eavesdropping.”

“Military yarn? What’s that strumpet mean by ‘military yarn’?” Rodney demanded, cranky.

John snorted. “She had no way of knowing it was a book about a scientist’s life. That’s no reason to call her a strumpet.”

“No, you’re right. Her outlandish behavior is enough to call her a strumpet!”

“This from a man who rants and rails against society’s overbearing restrictions?”

“There’s restrictions and then there’s _her_. Last time I met a lady like her, a hefty sum was spent for the privilege of it!”

“Took a fortune to talk her into it?” John retorted, unexpectedly feeling mean on Chaya’s behalf. At the startled and hurt look on McKay’s face, he winced and said, “I’m sorry, Rodney.”

The ghost got up and crossed over to the seat opposite him, arms still folded across his chest. John felt as cold as if the spirit had made contact with him.

“’Brass’, she said,” Rodney grumbled. “I’ll polish her brass for her! And the way she was licking her chops at you, like a cat at a fish stall! You should’ve punched her lights out.”

John’s eyebrows went up. “A trifle extreme against a female, don’t you think? Besides… I found her rather charming.”

“’Rather charming’,” Rodney sneered, echoing the faint British drawl Sheppard had attempted with better credibility. “Now you’re trying to talk like her!”

“Well, how in blazes do you _want_ me to talk?” John demanded, slipping back into his Virginian drawl. He was thoroughly exasperated at his friend’s behavior.

“That’s better,” Rodney grunted.

“I don’t quite get you,” John muttered, giving the ghost a squinty-eyed glare. “You’re behaving childishly. Why?”

“I’m only trying to protect you from your own worst instincts!”

“I’ll manage my own instincts, thanks much!”

“What made you lie to the slummock?”

John gaped for a moment at Rodney’s horrid insult to Chaya. Then, he glared and said, “I didn’t lie to her!”

“You did! You told her that she’s Anna’s favorite author when you know perfectly well that Anna _hates_ ‘Auntie Nettie’ books. She prefers to read _’Dead-Eye Dick: Rover of the Spanish Main’_!”

“I had to say _something_ ,” John retorted, “and unlike you, I’m not comfortable enough or _dead_ enough to not give a damn about being unnecessarily rude to someone! So it was a little white lie! She’d been quite helpful to me; I saw no harm in being kind in return!”

“I daresay she’d have taken a different currency in exchange for her helpfulness!”

John glared at Rodney until a thought occurred to him. His bad mood melted away as a wicked smile spread across his face.

Rodney stiffened and a nervous expression crossed _his_ face. “What are you smirking about?”

“You,” Sheppard drawled.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Oh, nothing – except that I do believe you’re _jealous_ , Rodney.”

The ghost tensed with visible outrage. “I’m nothing of the sort! What do you think I am: some puling schoolboy? Besides which, jealousy is a disease of the living.”

“Then you’re the liveliest ghost around,” John teased. “Should I check for a pulse?”

Blue eyes glared coldly at him. “Keep your distance, Major.”

John held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All I know is that you’re being completely disagreeable – and today of all days!”

“What’s so great about today?” Rodney muttered, his tone petulant.

John rolled his eyes. “The _book_ , you twit! Caldwell liked the book.”

“Well, of _course_ he did – and don’t call me a twit!”

John snorted and grinned. “It’s going to get published, Rodney – the book! And now I’ll be able to purchase the house.” When the ghost said nothing, he prompted, “Just like we agreed.”

“I’m not so certain I _want_ you to have it,” McKay pouted.

“Oh, Rodney – really!” John snapped, fed up and maybe a little worried.

The ghost glared at him for a few moments, but then relented. “Yes, fine, alright! I suppose being a living man, you can’t help it.”

“Can’t help what?”

“Making a fool of yourself with the first eager specimen to come along.”

“You’re the one who said I should meet people!”

“ _People_ , not perfumed parlor snakes!”

“Would you _please_ stop sulking?”

“What’s to sulk about? Just because you’re throwing your ninny-hammered self at the first person to offer—“

“Rodney!”

The ghost snorted. “Excuse me all to blazes, I’m sure. Here I thought you preferred the _male_ of the species, anyway. But if you’re _that_ lonely... how’s the saying go? Any port in a storm?”

“At least I can sail my ship into a harbor, so to speak!”

Rodney’s sulk deepened and he looked away.

John sighed. His head was beginning to ache, but he felt bad for the hurt he was inflicting on a lonely spirit. Getting up, he crossed over to sit beside McKay, careful to not touch the other man.

“Rodney, I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he offered. “But don’t fret. I get that you don’t like Miss Sar, even though I did, but there’s nothing to worry about: I won’t see her again.”

“I wouldn’t bet good money on that,” Rodney growled, but he relaxed into a slouch anyway and gave Sheppard a small smile.

They were sitting in companionable silence when the hallway door to the railcar opened, startling them. They looked up as an elderly, portly man with bushier muttonchops than Kavanaugh could ever hope to sport started to step inside.

Even though Sheppard’s mouth never opened, an irate male voice roared: “ _Piss off_ , you blasted mud-turtle! There’s no room!”

Clearly, Rodney had reached his limit on other people spending time around John.

Fury at the insult darkened the elderly man’s face. His spine stiff with outrage, the man said coldly, “I beg your pardon, sir!” He stepped back out into the hall, slammed the door shut, and stalked away to find a different railcar to rest in.

John slowly turned his head to look at Rodney, who pointedly looked away out the window at the rainy countryside. After a few moments, he caved in and looked at John again, only to find a grin on the living man’s face and his shoulders shaking with snickers.

Rodney couldn’t help it: he began giggling.

The odd, high-pitched sound that had always amused Sheppard from the beginning got to him. Leaning back, he threw back his head and _laughed_ ; great, big honking belly laughs that sounded like a donkey in distress. Rodney lost control himself at the sound and the carriage rang with the laughter of the two hysterically amused men.

 

*~*~*~*


	5. You've Been Dreaming...

A few weeks went by and soon, Spring turned to Summer and all over the North American continent, people migrated to the beaches of their nearest lakes, rivers, or the ocean.

Out in the tiny village of Pugwash, the main street was practically deserted because everyone was at the beach.

One little girl in particular watched intently as her name was carved on a wooden post by a weathered old seaman. With wide, shining eyes, she asked excitedly, "Will my name be there _forever_ , Mr. Scroggins?"

"Mm-hmm! Forever and a day," the old man promised. "And I've cut it nice and deep so all the ships at sea can see it."

"My _goodness!_ " the little girl cried, and she ran for the nearest beach wagon cabana through which swimmers could change into and out of swimming gear. She raced up the ramp, opened the public side door, and darted through. On the other side was another open door and ramp, one that led into the water. A thick, sturdy rope was attached to the wagon and this was used by a swimmer to hold onto when they went wading out, so the person wouldn't be swept out to sea by a sudden undertow.

At the top of the ramp, the little girl called out, "Papa! Come and see what Mr. Scroggins has done!"

John, in his bathing costume, turned with a grin. He waved and called back, "I'll be right out, Anna!"

Hauling on the rope, he pulled himself through the water until he could climb up onto the sand. He stood on the beach, shaking his head vigorously to the side in the hopes of knocking water out of his ears. After a few moments, he gave it up as a lost cause and straightened up, a little dizzy. He took a deep breath, looked around… and blew it out explosively, feeling his ears burn as part of his blush as he realized other beachgoers were eyeing him surreptitiously. He wore the cotton trousers and singlet of a male swimmer, in black, but the fabric was thin and _clung_ to him now that he was wet. He might as well be naked, given that every line of him could be easily seen.

Hurrying up the ramp, using the rope to pull himself up, he dried off with the towel that Anna handed him with a murmured thank-you and then pulled on a light robe to cover up with.

He followed his eight-year-old daughter out of the wagon and up to the waiting Mr. Scroggins, who grinned at John as he let his hands drop to Anna's shoulders as the little girl came to stand by him. John smirked back at the grizzled old man. He knew Hero Worship from a child when he saw it.

"Mr. Scroggins says I'll always be here," Anna informed her father, gesturing at the post that now held her name, "and all the captains of all the ships will be able to look at me through spyglasses!"

John grinned as he looked at the deeply carved ANNA SHEPPARD in the thick wooden post, then down at the excited little girl. "That's very thoughtful of Mr. Scroggins. Just think of all the lovely shipwrecks we'll have on this beach," he teased. "Now, what do you say to getting dressed and plotting our course for home?"

"Oh, please, Papa!" Anna whined immediately, distressed at the thought of leaving. "Mr. Scroggins and I have _got_ to build a breakwater and a canal!"

The older man laughed. "I'll be pleased to bring her home, Major."

John grinned and patted Anna’s head. "All right, Skipper, but mind you're not too late."

Anna smiled widely and nodded her agreement. The two men murmured good-byes and John went back to the wagon so he could get dressed to head for home.

An hour later found John dressed in simple slacks, shoes, and a shirt left open at the neck and the sleeves rolled to his elbows, allowing him to catch a sweet warm breeze while he carried his straw boater hat in his hand. The caress of the summer breeze felt good on his skin, and John smiled as he climbed easily up the sloping path along the cliff that would lead toward home.

As he came abreast of a pine-shaded overlook, he paused when he found a white handkerchief tied to a bush. Closer inspection found JS embroidered in black thread in one corner. Frowning, confused, John removed his handkerchief from the bush and tucked it into a pocket as he wondered what Rodney might be up to.

He went forward a few more steps until a voice startled him and made him whirl around, dropping into a defensive stance.

“Life is one marvelous coincidence after another, isn’t it?” Chaya Sar teased lightly, giving him a coquettish smile over her shoulder.

John blinked, surprised. After a moment, he relaxed and walked toward the slender woman dressed in sheer, off-white silk that clung sweetly to her curves. The diaphanous sleeves fluttered in the breeze against arms lifted to hold a paint palette on one wrist. The hand of the other dabbed a paintbrush briefly at the canvas set on an easel before she neatly flipped a protective cover forward to hide the image.

“Coincidence?” John murmured with a smile. “I doubt it. Thank you for returning my kerchief, madam.”

“Yes, well… I confess to feeling _somewhat_ ashamed for taking it,” Chaya replied, offering him a sweet smile as she lowered her lashes demurely.

“Perhaps you should be.”

“Only as a writer, of course,” she added, and smirked an impossibly cute smile at him. “It was far too obvious a device.”

“And in questionable taste for a lady’s behavior,” John retorted, but he didn’t mean a word of it.

“Oh, come now, Major Sheppard,” Chaya said, and moved to put down the paint palette along the low stone wall of the overlook. She carefully cleaned her hands and fingers with a wet cloth before tossing it casually towards an open basket set nearby. “Society can expect only so much. Am I not blessed with intelligence and creativity? Or shall I be stifled into doing the same thing all ladies are told they must do, must be?”

“I suppose that depends entirely on what you want out of life,” John replied, following to stand by her. He couldn’t explain why she captivated him so. He’d known for ages he was not of the normal persuasion, but looking at her… smelling her delicate fragrance… John thought he might have been wrong. Perhaps, he’d only been waiting for the right woman to come along. “What is it that you want?”

She smiled at him, her sherry-brown eyes sparkling with mischief and amusement. “Besides the usual tripe of moonbeams caught in a jar? I had what I wanted for the last few weeks; a token to remember you by until I could find you again. I assure you, I kept it quite close to my heart.”

John’s own heart beat a little harder as he let his gaze drop briefly to her décolletage. Sheer white silk, similar to the material covering her arms, gave a teasing hint of creamy skin and lush roundness that disappeared beneath the opaque material of her summer gown’s bodice.

When his gaze lifted again, he found her sight fixed on him. She had caught him looking and, if the subtle expression of pleasure on her face was true, she didn’t mind in the least.

Flustered, John stepped away from Chaya, moving back to the covered canvas. “You’re quite accomplished, aren’t you, Miss Sar? I should think being ‘Auntie Nettie’ would satisfy most women.”

Chaya moved to stand beside him. Her low, husky reply made John shiver as she said, “I’m not most women, Major.”

He made a noncommittal sound.

“But, yes, your implication is correct,” she said at last, when he offered no words. “I also paint… under the name of Renoir.”

John chuckled, keeping a full roar of a laugh from escaping lest he frighten her away with the horrid and awkward sound. “You are unfashionably silly, aren’t you?”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!” Chaya remarked, a bright smile on her face as she teased him.

“Hmmm.” John glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “What, if anything, do you do as Chaya Sar?”

“Play the ingénue, generally,” she murmured, moving so she could get a better look at him. “Specifically, I behave quite outlandishly towards a certain young man I fell in love with while passing on a stair.”

“Chaya,” John warned gently, turning to face her.

“I’ve no illusions of my forwardness,” Chaya replied. She sighed, though, and looked away. “I suppose I’ve been unforgivably offensive. Have I been, Johnny?”

“Johnny,” he echoed, surprised.

“Have I said something wrong?”

“No… no. It’s… simply been a long time since I’ve been called that.” His gaze went unfocused as he became lost in thought and memory, unaware of her hungry gaze sweeping over his beautiful face; his lean and masculine form.

After a moment, John sighed and shook his head as he returned his attention to her. “No, Chaya… you’ve done nothing unforgivable. It’s just… I’m not used to being the one pursued.”

“Because other people who are not you and are not I dictate how we must express our interest in each other,” Chaya said, her tone faintly resentful. “That I, in telling you of my feelings before you have said a word on the subject, should be considered a wanton female; loose and amoral… oh, how it galls me! I think, occasionally, that I should march upon the people of the world and turn them all on their collective, stodgy head.”

John looked at her with renewed interest. Confidence and a willingness to buck the trend had been what had drawn him to Elizabeth.

Chaya shook her head, then, and gave him a soft smile. “Come; look at my canvas.”

She lifted the protective covering away to reveal the portrait’s subject. John blinked to see himself coming out of the water, a smile on his face and one hand lifted in a wave while the other hand held the water-rope. He knew it was the moment when Anna had called him out of the water to come see her name carved into wood.

“It’s… me,” he murmured. “You’ve been watching me bathe.”

“Quite happily so,” Chaya replied, her voice warm with appreciation. “I rather like the way water looks on you.”

John snorted. He knew what she meant, for she’d sketched him true-to-life; his bathing costume plastered tightly to his body by the water soaking the fabric. As he’d thought: no part of him had been left to anyone’s imagination save for skin color and scars.

“It isn’t too terrible, is it?” she asked, standing close beside him.

John took a deep breath to steady himself. As he did so, he caught a whiff of her sweet fragrance and felt his mouth water. She smelled so good; like fresh skin and something delicate, something sweet, and he wanted to taste every inch of her.

“No,” he said, turning to look at her. “It’s… it’s quite flattering, really.”

“It would need a thousand Renoirs to do you justice,” she whispered.

John sealed his mouth to hers, stopping her words, taking her breath and her flavor. He teased her lips with his, begged permission for more with delicate touches of his tongue. When her lips parted, he slipped inside; kissed her as he bent her backward, eager for more while her arms went around him.

A low, sweet moan rippled up from her throat, shocking John back to awareness. Gasping, he straightened them both upright and then stepped away, his hands shaking with lust.

Chaya breathed quickly, her bosom lifting and dropping with the swiftness of her panting. John watched and curled his hands into fists rather than reach and shape his palms to the sweet roundness hidden beneath silk.

“That… I suppose that _was_ unforgivable, wasn’t it?” she murmured, but when their gazes met, she did not look embarrassed or horrified. “But I shall not go away – not even if you order it so. I shall see you again, even if you should forbid it.”

John licked his lips, catching a hint of her taste as he did so. “I… Chaya, I’m not….” He swallowed roughly. “I don’t… have any say in where you go or where you stay.”

Her smile was warm with pleasure and triumph. “Then, you won’t forbid it.”

“Chaya…”

She stepped forward against him again, lifting her arms to twine them around his neck. “Johnny…”

Helpless against the allure of her, John bent to kiss her again.

Long moments later, they parted only because the sound of laughter as people came near to the outlook they were situated on. John hurriedly took his leave of her at her urging, though he’d rather have stayed to see to her safety and reputation. Chaya assured him she would be fine, but only if he was not seen – for he had the look of a man who had quite been enjoying himself.

As he hurried up the cliff path as best he could, John cast a disparaging look at the tenting of the crotch of his trousers. Oh, yes – definitely the look of a man enjoying himself.

He walked for several minutes, his body calming as he put distance between himself and Chaya. Just as he reached the top of the path, just as he wondered why he’d allowed himself such liberties with a lady of class, John stumbled to a halt at the sight of Rodney McKay leaning against the boulder that marked the descent of the cliff path.

“So, now you’ve kissed a lover beneath a tree all over again,” the ghost said snidely, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You’ve been spying on me,” Sheppard accused.

“Well, that’s absurd,” Rodney retorted. “I merely happened to be in the vicinity.”

“Ha!”

Rodney snorted, but he fell into step beside John as the living man stormed past him towards the private path that would take him up to Gull Cottage.

“Why’d you let her kiss you?” he needled, curious and venomous all at once.

“ _Let_ her? I practically devoured her on the spot!” John snapped. “Happily, I am no monster, else she might very well have been ravished then and there!”

“I somehow doubt she would have minded terribly,” the ghost replied, his tone desert-dry. “Which reminds me: I thought you preferred your own gender for company?”

John’s hands clenched into fists. “Apparently, we were both mistaken. There is something about Chaya that draws me… drives me. Had we not been interrupted, I think I might have—“

“Yes, thank you, I needn’t the details,” Rodney grumbled peevishly.

“I should say not, _lurking_ as you were and spying!”

“As if I wanted to see such a carnal display!”

“You went where and did _what_ with Sir Burton?”

Rodney waved a hand dismissively. “So, anyway; why’d you let her?”

John sighed and looked away. “She… she took me unaware.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I never see female interest coming!”

“How could you have missed it? She did all but hire a brass band to parade her interest!” Rodney gave a short laugh. “Really? Is that how your lady Elizabeth managed to capture you? She led you skillfully along the path toward matrimony until you looked up and found yourself standing before an altar and decided ‘what the hell, why not?’”

John gaped at the ghost, his mouth hanging open unattractively for a few moments. Then, as a mortified blush spread across his face and ears, he strode toward Gull Cottage without another word.

Rodney lengthened his stride to keep up, chuckling. “I was merely joking, Major. I had no idea my jest would be so _accurate_.”

“ _McKay_ …”

“Eh; it hardly matters. Pertaining to the wily woman who waylaid you ‘pon yon path… my dear Major Sheppard, no man or woman has truly been caught unawares in such chaste settings.”

“ _What_ are you insinuating, McKay?” John growled.

“When someone has been kissed in such an open, romantic setting, Sheppard… deep down, he or she _wanted_ to be kissed.”

“That’s your regret talking – that you aren’t alive for it to be done to _you_.”

A brief look of hurt flickered over the ghost’s face. Rodney shrugged a moment later. “Nevertheless, it’s true. You are the man, she the woman… ‘Fie on propriety!’ she might say, but there was no way you were getting out of there without her lips on yours. Women like her are deadly predators and you, Major, are her prey.”

John rolled his eyes. “You exaggerate, McKay.”

“I assure you, I do not. Well? What happens now?”

John sighed and shook his head. “She’ll either go or stay. It hardly matters to me one way or another.”

“’Ha!’ right back at you, Major,” Rodney said with a smirk. “I think it matters far more than you’ll admit, to me or yourself. Isn’t that right, John?”

“Why bother to ask _me_ , Rodney? You seem to know my mind and body better than _I_ do,” John replied, utterly sarcastic. “You don’t like her, do you?”

“What gave it away?” Rodney asked, feigning an expression of innocence.

“The viciousness of your remarks,” John retorted, ticking off points on his fingers. “The seething jealousy that is so very obvious, the—“

“She douses herself in so much perfume as to kill me twice over,” Rodney shot back. “Egad, the cloud of stench that permeates her bedroom!”

“Pervert,” said John, a wry smile on his lips. “Lurking about a lady’s boudoir?”

Rodney curled his lip. “Hello – _spirit_ , here! I don’t lurk in the manner you’re implying, Major, as it does me very little good!”

“Then stay out of her room! You shouldn’t be in there for any reason!”

“You’ll find any reason to defend her, won’t you?”

“Only because you’re attacking her, McKay.”

“I know.” The fight went out of Rodney as he sighed. “It’s natural human reaction.”

“And you’re not and can’t have one, because you’re not alive.”

“And she is.” Rodney’s intense blue gaze caught John; held him still by the power of his presence alone. “Very much so.”

John swallowed hard. “It’s not a crime to be alive.”

“No, John, it isn’t,” Rodney agreed. He stepped close; tilted his chin to meet the taller man’s gaze. “Sometimes, it is a great inconvenience. After all, the living can be hurt.”

“I don’t intend to be hurt,” John replied, his voice low and gruff.

“No soldier intends for his rifle to jam at a crucial moment, either, but it happens.”

John understood the analogy and turned away, his arms crossed over his chest as he slowly walked across the sheep-cropped grass.

Eventually, he turned back to face the ghost with a scowl on his face. “You’re the one who said I need to get back out in the world. That means taking risks!”

The un-slanted corner of Rodney’s mouth curled up a tiny bit in an attempt at a smile. “I know, John. Real happiness is worth almost any risk. But, take care – there may be an ambush ahead.”

John softened as he realized the ghost’s concern for him. He ducked his chin down, smiling a little, and then lifted his head to look at the other man straight on as he said, “I will. Thank you, Rodney.”

With that, he walked away toward home, leaving the spirit to stay behind and watch him go.

Rodney sighed as he watched John walk away. He wanted, more than _anything_ , to protect his friend from the heartache he could see coming. He could do nothing to stop it. If he tried, he’d be accused of jealousy yet again. No… this was something John had to learn on his own and Rodney would help him, keep him safe, as much as he possibly could.

Ghost or not, friendship and… other feelings… transcended boundaries for noble reasons, or so he’d been told once upon a time.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Teyla stood with freshly folded linens in her arms, glaring up at the small portrait of John Sheppard coming out of the water in his bathing costume. Chaya Sar had delivered the finished watercolor in person a month ago. The small canvas had gone up on the wall directly beside the large, ostentatious portrait of Doctor McKay. While Teyla couldn’t disagree about how lovely the two subjects looked together, she certainly _could_ disagree about the genre of the newest portrait and especially about the artist.

Hearing John coming up the stairs, she moved to put away the linens in the trunk in one corner of the room.

The door opened a few moments later and John stepped in, neatly dressed in a tailored summer suit; all smiles and a bounce in his step. “’Lo, Teyla!”

“Hello, Major Sheppard,” she replied, fussing the linens free of wrinkles before closing the lid of the trunk.

John wandered across the spacious bedroom to admire the portrait Chaya had given him. “Like my picture?”

“No,” Teyla said shortly.

John swung around to look at her in surprise. He snickered and said, “That’s honest, anyway.”

“’Tis indecent, is what it is,” she grumbled, and went to spread up the sheets and quilt on his bed. “Her painting you in your bathing costume like you were a… well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Teyla,” John chided gently. “This _is_ the 20th century. We must rid ourselves of unnecessary restrictions lest we become stagnant as a society.”

“Very prettily said,” Teyla replied, her tone tart. “Who said it first?”

John grinned. “Elizabeth.”

Teyla snorted and continued to spread up the bed.

John sighed. Shifting, he plopped his one hip up onto the bed, deliberately getting in her way. “Alright, my old friend: out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“Your reason for being so cranky – especially in regard to Miss Sar.”

Teyla paused in making the bed to glare at him peevishly. “What is that woman up to? What does she _want_ with you?”

John smirked at his housekeeper. “Well, I rather think she wants a husband.”

“A well-to-do, financially stable _lady_ such as her… and she’s in want of a husband?”

“She’s rather unconventional. I like that, actually. If she wants me, then I’m willing. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because she isn’t good enough for you – that is why!” Teyla snapped, rounding on him. “She’s the kind of female no one decent should associate with!”

John stared at her with wide eyes, utterly shocked. “Teyla, what right have you to speak of her like that?”

“I have a right to my feelings – and I have a _feeling_ about _her!_ ”

“How dare you!”

“I dare plenty because I care about you, John Sheppard!”

The fight went out of both of them at that admission. Teyla sighed and finished tucking the bedding into place.

“You have been family to me for many years, now,” she said quietly. “Ever since the day you rescued me from those miscreants that meant to take my freedom from me, I have claimed you as family. This you already know. I _worry_ about you, Johnny.”

John got up and moved to set his hand on her shoulder in comfort. “Now, Teyla… there’s nothing to worry about. I realize she isn’t perfect; that she is conceited and selfish, perhaps even childish. But, she _is_ real.”

“She is also a _she_ ,” Teyla said grimly, and John’s hand flinched off her shoulder. She sighed and shook her head. “Not that such matters; preferences change on a whim. But, what do you mean by ‘real’?”

John, wondering how she could have possibly known, took the escape she offered him. “I thought I was impervious to emotion. Here am I, a respectable widower with a growing child and a hide like a rhinoceros. But… I’m not impervious. I require companionship; laughter and affection and all the things living humans need.”

“Then… for your sake, I hope she can give them to you,” Teyla said, “though it is my belief you should not settle for what you can touch instead of what you _want_.”

John gave her a peculiar look, but said nothing.

Teyla sighed and headed towards the door of his room. “I shall make us a pot of tea to soothe our nerves.”

“You do that,” John approved. As the door closed behind her, John moved to stand before the portraits. He glanced at the one of him for a moment, and then fixed his attention on the haughty scientist glaring down at him from the wall.

“Well, Rodney?” he murmured, his voice unknowingly wistful. “Haven’t _you_ anything to say?”

Rodney McKay generally had _plenty_ to say and never kept quiet when there was a chance to speak his mind to a semi-willing ear.

But in this moment, his silence spoke enough for him as he did not manifest at John’s invitation.

Sighing, Sheppard moved away from the portrait to go to the balcony, wanting the sun on his face.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Later that evening, in the small garden in the backyard and beneath the light of a half-moon, John stood in a shadowy corner with Chaya as he kissed her hungrily. Her nails dug into his back through the thin cloth of his suit-coat and shirt as she kissed him back with equal eagerness.

Eventually, he broke the kiss to take a few necessary breaths of air. He was gentle as he pulled her head back so he could nibble and suck lightly at her neck.

She shivered and pressed more firmly against him. For an instant, he felt he should move back, but the way she squirmed against him indicated her pleasure at his physical reaction. He dropped his hands to her hips and held her there against him as he continued to kiss her neck.

“Oh,” she breathed, and John smiled. Then, she asked, “Are you happy?”

“I’ve never felt like this before,” he confessed, and he really hadn’t. The passion he’d felt with Holland paled in comparison to what Chaya aroused in him. The comfort of his marriage with Elizabeth had been mild when held against the excitement of Chaya’s risqué behavior.

“How _do_ you feel?” she murmured, and gasped when he swept his hand up her side to cup one round breast through the cloth of her gown.

“I can’t…”

“ _Tell_ me, my love; please tell me how I make you happy.”

John sighed as he moved to kiss her mouth while his thumb stroked and teased her nipple, making her vibrate against him.

“I feel like I’m standing high up in the sky,” he muttered, “looking down from above and dizzy with the pleasure of it and thinking that I shall fall any moment.”

“You won’t fall,” she promised, kissing him. “I won’t let you.”

“Even if I fall for you?” he replied, teasing her even more.

Chaya shivered and pulled him closer.

John made a hungry sound and tucked his face against her neck. “It can’t be right, to feel like this. Like… I don’t _know_.”

“It’s right because you’re happy,” Chaya said, cupping the back of his head, her fingers threading through his hair.

John straightened up and pulled back a little. As he did so, he noticed the kitchen light go out and smiled.

“Teyla’s gone up,” he murmured. “It’s Anna’s bedtime.”

He gave her a rueful smile and began to untangle himself from her. Chaya’s hands on his arms stopped him.

“Just this once,” she implored, “pretend you’ve forgotten.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I can hardly forget my daughter.”

“This one night…”

He smiled and pressed another kiss to her pretty mouth. “There will be many more nights, my darling; two lifetimes’ worth, until we’re old and gray, and even Anna’s grown and married, too.”

John blinked, surprised, at the way she looked away with reluctance. “Chaya?”

She looked at him again, fluttering her lashes and blushing prettily as she said, “It’s only that I’m jealous – I’m even jealous of a little girl.”

John smiled, mollified. “She’s my daughter, Chaya; I’ve a duty to her and one I’m not likely to forget no matter how enchanting the company I keep.”

“When you’re with me,” Chaya murmured, standing up on tiptoe to press kisses to his chin and mouth, “I want you to forget everything and everyone else in the world. I want you to forget duty and everything else except me and how much you want me… how much _I_ want _you_.”

She shifted back to lean against the old stone wall that formed the corner they stood in. As she did so, her legs spread a little bit beneath her skirt, allowing John’s legs to slip neatly between, caught only by the cloth of her gown.

“Chaya,” he whispered against her mouth, and groaned as she arched to press against him.

“Forget everything,” she entreated, guiding his hands down to her skirt. “Forget everything else and think only of me, my love. I am here, now, for you; all for you…”

“Enchantress,” he murmured, his hands clenching; gathering her skirt and drawing it upward. “Chaya, love, are you certain?”

“More than anything,” she said, her voice hot with passion, and drew him into a kiss that took all of his thoughts away in a whirl of light and sound.

Several feet away, Rodney McKay turned his back as Chaya’s skirt and petticoat lifted higher and higher, baring her legs. His mouth flattened into a grim slash at the sounds of cloth rustling, or stone being scraped, of panting and breathless moans of pleasure. Years ago, when he’d been alive, the sounds would have excited him unbearably. Now, they meant nothing to him but regret and resentment.

There was nothing for him here in the land of the living. There couldn’t be; the divide between life and death was too great.

As John Sheppard made love to Chaya Sar in the shadowy garden, Rodney McKay faded away to escape the sound of John in love with someone else.

 

*~*~*~*

 

In the wee hours of the morning, as the ship’s clock chimed the third hour, Rodney McKay stood beside the bed in the master bedroom, looking down at the slumbering man inside it.

“I thought you were one man with sense,” Rodney grumbled, looking at John with longing. “But, no… you’re like all the rest: easily led by your baser instincts and ephemeral promises, giving your heart and your passion to anyone who promises you the moon – and end you by taking everything you have to give.”

John shifted restlessly in his sleep and Rodney sighed, looking away for a moment.

“No,” he said, when John shifted again. “No. Don’t trouble yourself, my friend. It isn’t your fault. I should have expected this result. My theory that we could co-exist was flawed; doomed from the start to give me the conclusion I didn’t want but knew was the only one could be. You’ve made your choice, John; the only choice you _could_ make. You’ve chosen Life and that’s as it should be… whatever the reckoning. That’s why I’m going away, John. I cannot help you now. I can only confuse you more and destroy any remaining chance you have at happiness. I was selfish with my life… but I’ll not be so selfish with yours. You must make your own way through life, without me to help or hinder you. Whether you make fair friends or foul, you must find your own way to the end.”

He paused to gather his thoughts, his emotions, his sense of rightness for John’s sake. He wanted, more than anything, to stroke a finger down the sleeping man’s cheek; feel smooth skin turn to rough stubble. He wanted to riffle his fingers through the cowlick mess of black hair. He _wanted_ … but it did him no good.

He couldn’t touch John physically, but he could touch John’s thoughts, and it was there that he went. Settling down atop the bed, careful to keep his cold manifestation from touching John, he held himself just above his friend. He allowed himself the parody of a lover’s possessiveness, his mouth scant centimeter’s from John’s.

“Listen to me, John,” he entreated. “ _Listen_ to me, my dear. You’ve been _dreaming_ ; dreaming of a cantankerous scientist that haunted this house, of talks you had with him – even of a book you wrote together. But, John, _you_ wrote the book. You found old papers of his, old journals, that you lost not long after finding them – but you remembered enough to make a tale of the man’s life for amusement in the wake of your loneliness. You and no one else wrote the book. It was all a _dream_ , John. A long, entertaining dream, but now the dream is done and you don’t need it anymore.”

When John’s face lifted a little in sleep, searching for a kiss, Rodney pulled away. He stood and went to the telescope platform, looking out through the open balcony door for a few moments. He turned to look at his love and sighed.

“In the morning,” he said, still speaking to that reachable part of John’s mind, “and in the years after, you’ll remember all of this only as a dream. And, as with all dreams, it will die on waking.”

John remained asleep and Rodney held fast to his intentions. If he gave himself an opening now, he’d never leave and John would be ruined. He’d done enough wrong with his life; he’d not do wrong with John Sheppard’s.

“I envy you, you know. Think of all the things you’ll do, that you’ll be _able_ to do! You and your daughter are safe; Teyla is safe. Now, you can indulge in your own wants and needs. You will read and learn and grow in your knowledge; explore and investigate as you follow the paths your ideas and theories will lead you down. You’ll have the courage and the compassion to accept what you wouldn’t allow in your youthful pride and thank whatever you may that you matured into wisdom!”

Rodney sighed as he let go of John’s sleeping mind. He lifted one hand to cover his eyes, pressing thumb and fingers against his temples in an instinctive gesture long-engrained.

“What I’ll _miss_ ,” he grumbled, feeling sorry for himself. He dropped his hand and looked at the living man one last time. “What we _both_ shall miss, John.”

As he began to fade out, Rodney kept his gaze fixed on Sheppard. “Goodbye… my dear.”

Rodney vanished, giving himself up to the ether. As he departed, the balcony door swung silently closed and latched itself shut.

 

*~*~*~*

 

A few weeks later, John stood in his bedroom dressed in a loose cotton shirt, soft trousers, and a smile. He was carefully brushing his summer suit jacket free of lint while behind him, Teyla was busy making the bed. He couldn’t help smiling; he was far more relaxed than he’d been in a very long time. Then again, the pleasure of knowing he would soon be financially stable, in the company of a charming wife, _and_ the dalliances he’d had with Chaya thus far had helped a great deal toward putting the smile on his face.

He finished with the jacket and then went to his dresser to pick up the letter he’d placed there before being distracted by clothing.

“Listen to this!” he said, knowing Teyla would do so. “It’s a letter from Mr. Caldwell about the book I’ve written. ‘Our check for $200 for advanced royalties as you requested’.”

Teyla made a disparaging sound. “You mean they’ve paid you good money for _that?_ ”

John snorted a laugh and turned to look at his friend. “Teyla, do you mean to say you’ve read the book?”

Shrugging, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, Teyla stepped away from the neatly made bed to gather up John’s dirty clothing for laundering. “I’m supposed to dust in here, Major. What falls under my eye, falls under my eye.”

John smirked. “Teyla, I’m surprised at you – eavesdropping!”

“That would be if there’d been something to hear and there wasn’t – thank the gods for that. What I _read_ was rude enough.”

“When one writes about a scientific explorer exposed to new things and new peoples, one must use the language _he_ would use.”

“I doubt quite a bit that the scientists of Cambridge would use _that_ sort of language.”

“They might if they ever rousted themselves from their dusty old cubby-holes and immersed themselves in life instead of theory,” John teased. He moved to the telescope platform to look out through the closed balcony door. “Steven wants me to come to Halifax and sign some papers, but I can’t; not now.”

“Why not now?”

John turned to grin at Teyla. “I’m expecting Miss Sar. We’re going to have a picnic.”

Teyla snorted. “You mean _she_ is.”

Thoughts of what Chaya might delicately nibble and taste vanished in the wake of Teyla’s obvious displeasure. John scowled at his friend.

“Now, Teyla,” he chided, “please keep in mind that I intend to marry Chaya.”

“As you wish, Major.”

John tucked a smile away. Teyla only called him ‘Major’ when in mixed company or when she was miffed with him. Despite his frustration at her dislike of Chaya, he found Teyla’s irritation a little bit cute.

He wandered back into the room proper and turned to look at the ostentatious portrait of Doctor McKay. He felt for a moment a fleeting regret that the excitement of the man had passed from him. But the book was done, there were no more papers to find, and John felt he’d lingered in the fantasy of an excitable scientist long enough.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said to Teyla, “that we might put the portrait of Doctor McKay up in the attic.”

“Don’t you like it anymore?” she asked, surprised.

“I brought it in here as motivation, I suppose, when I first imagined what his life might be like; before those imaginings solidified into the notion to write a book. But the book is done and I don’t need him anymore.”

It felt wrong to Teyla that Doctor McKay was being dismissed so readily. Though the man had long been gone from the world, he’d still been Johnny’s constant companion in thought for the last year; rousing Johnny out of his doldrums after losing Elizabeth. To have McKay dismissed as nothing now that Chaya was swinging her hips at Johnny…. It made her skin crawl, was all.

“I’ll hang it in my room, then, if you don’t mind,” Teyla surprised herself and John by saying.

He turned to her with lifted eyebrows. “No, I don’t mind.”

As Teyla left the room to begin laundry, she added a parting shot: “Perhaps you can get ‘Auntie Nettie’ to paint you a portrait of herself, instead, to fill the empty space.”

“Teyla!” John snapped, truly angry now, but she merely walked out and shut the door behind her.

Irritated, John went to his writing desk and sat down with a thump. He opened the letter book that held loose sheets of paper for writing, uncapped the inkwell, and began writing a reply to Caldwell.

 _Dear Mr. Caldwell: I find myself unable to leave Pugwash this week. I hope you will forgive me the delay, but I ask that you allow me to come to you in seven days’ time. You see, it is my hope that in a few days, I shall win the hand and heart of—_

The bedroom door opened and Teyla stepped through quickly, carrying a sealed envelope. “A boy from the village brought this for you; a billet-doux, I daresay.”

John accepted the note with a mild glare. “Even if it _is_ a love letter, your opinion on it is not needed.”

Nevertheless, she lingered as he slit the envelope with a silver letter opener. A few moments later, John made a sound of disappointment and let the note fall to his desk with a sigh.

“How terrible!” John muttered, honestly upset. “It’s from Miss Sar. She has been called back to Halifax for a few days.”

“What’s so terrible about _that?_ ” Teyla remarked tartly, and left the bedroom without another word even as John turned to glare at her.

John slouched in the hardwood chair, scowling at Teyla’s bratty behavior and the disappointment of missing out on the picnic with Chaya. He’d rather looked forward to getting her alone in a field of flowers and….

He shook his head, forcing his thoughts away from fantasies of what he _would_ have done. Damn it all, how unfortunate! What was he to do now that she was gone away to… to _Halifax_.

John sat up with a smile as he realized all was not lost for the time being. The picnic would be delayed, but he wouldn’t have to do without Chaya’s company. Ripping up the first letter he’d begun, John dipped the pen into the inkwell and began a new one.

 _Dear Mr. Caldwell: it is good to hear from you and with such wonderful news! I find myself currently available and shall arrive in Halifax within the next three days…_

 

*~*~*

 

Caldwell smiled indulgently as he stood beside John Sheppard, watching the younger man sign papers with a flourish.

“There!” John said, smiling as he put the pen in its holder. He turned to look up at the older man. “Is that all there is to do?”

“That’s all,” Steven confirmed, “except to deposit the checks to your account when they come in.”

As John got to his feet, wrapping a hand around the handle of the umbrella he’d thought to bring with him this time just in case rain should happen, Caldwell added, “I congratulate you, Major, and your scientist, as well.”

John paused, and then smiled politely. “Oh, yes… my scientist.”

“I had a scientist of my own, once,” Caldwell murmured; “always hiccupped when nervous.”

The two men shared a smile of understanding.

Caldwell smirked and added, “I intend to hold you to your promise to introduce us, Sheppard.”

“Oh… yes, I did promise that, didn’t I?” John muttered. He gave the older man a sly smile. “You know, someday – when I’ve known you a little longer – I’ll tell you the truth about my scientist.”

Steven narrowed his eyes and John responded with a brilliant smile. After a moment, the older man snorted, shook his head, and smirked as he escorted Sheppard to the door.

“Goodbye, Caldwell,” John said, offering his hand. “Thank you again for all of your help. Do feel free to keep in touch; perhaps even come to Gull Cottage for a get-away.”

Steven shook the younger man’s hand heartily. “I might very well take you up on that invitation, Sheppard. Goodbye; John – it’s been an honor.”

The two former soldiers traded short salutes and then, John left the office, well on his way to being a moderately wealthy man once again.

He nearly walked out of the publisher’s rental space entirely, but recalled at the last minute that he didn’t actually know Chaya’s home address. Turning about, he went to the Enquiries desk.

The clerk, now much more respectful given Caldwell’s obvious approval of Sheppard, straightened up immediately and asked, “May I help you, Major Sheppard?”

John smirked at the young man. “Yes, thank you. May I have the home address of Miss Sar, please?”

The clerk blinked, but then asked, “Chaya Sar?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No, sir, Major Sheppard. Just a moment, please.” The clerk retrieved the office address book. He flipped to the S-names, used his finger as a place finder, and then said, “Here it is: Number 14, Albemarle Street.”

John nodded. “Thank you.”

With that, he made his way down to the street. It was a nice day and he felt rich with promised success of his book that he splurged on an open-air cab to take him to Chaya’s house. Half-an-hour later, the cabbie pulled up in front of a large, lavish residence in a well-to-do neighborhood. John mentally whistled, impressed. Chaya had done very well for herself as ‘Auntie Nettie.’

Paying the cabbie, John easily hopped out of the conveyance and made his way up the walk to the front door. He rang the bell and waited.

Within moments, a plump, homely little woman dressed in a maid’s uniform opened the door and smiled at him. “Yes, sir?”

“I would like to see Miss Chaya Sar, please,” he explained, offering a charming smile to the little woman.

“Yes, sir,” the maid replied, stepping back to let him in. She shut the door and turned to face him after he’d stepped inside. “Name, please?”

“Major John Sheppard.”

“Yes, sir. You’ll wait in there, please,” she said, pointing to the parlor off to her right. She dipped into a brief curtsy at him, and then hurried off into the depths of the house.

John watched her go for a moment, and then went into the parlor. He tugged off his gloves and hooked the umbrella over his arm. Pulling his hat from his head, he held it loosely as he investigated the expensively furnished room. He looked at the artwork adorning the walls and recognized quite a few of the paintings as Chaya’s. One that clearly wasn’t a work of hers was set on the wall above the fireplace. John frowned as he studied the portrait of Chaya, her arms around a young boy and a girl; both of whom bore a strong resemblance to her.

“Major Sheppard?”

The deep, masculine voice with the British accent caught him by surprise. John turned and found a man with lightly tan skin coming into the parlor. It was obvious by the bone structure in the man’s face and his accent that he was from the British Indies.

“Major Sheppard?” the man said again, and John nodded. The handshake offered was firm, but brief, since John had removed his gloves. “I am Bertram Anupam Sar. The maid said you wanted to see my wife. Perhaps I could help you?”

John went utterly still. He felt as if he’d been kicked by a mule. “Wife…”

“Or, if you don’t mind waiting, she should return soon,” Mr. Sar said, gesturing toward the nearest settee. He sat on it, John following automatically to sit facing him. “She’s out with our children, currently. I’ve had them abroad for the past few months; visiting my parents, primarily, and then little side-trips here and there. Chaya has taken them to the park to make up for lost time; she adores her little darlings. But then, as a friend of hers, I’m certain you know that already.”

When John failed to respond, Sar looked at him pointedly and prompted, “You _are_ a friend of Chaya’s, are you not?”

“I’m… I… I’m a writer,” John said, gaining control of his voice. “Miss… um… _Mrs._ Sar…”

“Shrimati,” Bertram interrupted. “It is the title in the Indies for a married woman.”

John swallowed and nodded his understanding. “She and I share the same publisher.”

Bertram’s hard expression eased a little. He looked at John with something that appeared like resignation. “How exciting. I do not often meet one of Chaya’s literary friends. You will wait for her, won’t you? I expect her back at any moment. I shall order tea for the three of us.”

 _No_ , John thought. _No, I cannot stay here!_

He got to his feet abruptly, startling Sar into standing as well.

“No,” John said, striving to speak as calmly as possible. “I’m… I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake, Mr. Sar.”

“A mistake, Major Sheppard?” Bertram prompted.

“Yes. I’m… sorry.”

John stepped past the other man, intent on fleeing. By all rights, Bertram could challenge him to a duel for his insult, but if he could simply _get out of there_ ….

A firm hand on his arm stopped him; the momentum of his halted motion swung him around to face Chaya’s husband.

Instead of fury, John found sympathetic understanding on Bertram Sar’s face.

“I believe I understand, my friend,” Sar murmured. The compassion in his gaze made John’s skin crawl. “My wife is fond of collecting pretty men that catch her eye – and _she_ catches them with her delicate, lust-provoking perfume. By now, she has almost a cult following of devotees that view her as something of a goddess.”

Shame and pain shocked through John with the force of a canon shot. Without a word, he turned and walked away.

“Major Sheppard!” Bertram called out, only to be met with the sound of his front door slamming shut. Sighing, he moved to stand before the fireplace, looking up at the portrait of his faithless wife.

“Curse you, Chaya,” he muttered at the beautiful woman’s picture. “Curse your callous, adulterous actions for creating yet another broken heart.”

On the sidewalk outside the Sar home, John took the time to tug his gloves into place and set his hat neatly upon his head. The simple, everyday actions served to calm him down; made him feel as if he were buckling himself into armor that would allow him to make his way home safely to where Anna and Teyla waited for him.

Moments later, he took himself off down the sidewalk toward the train station, nodding absently to fellow passersby as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

 

*~*~*

 

Two evenings later, he paced along the length of his balcony, having arrived home only a few hours prior. After Anna had been tucked into bed and read a story, John had joined Teyla in the kitchen and quietly told her of what he’d learned about _Mrs._ Chaya Sar.

Now, with Gull Cottage and the cliff shrouded in thick, dense fog, John paced and paced as he stared out into the nighttime darkness. He was insensible to the permeating chill of the evening fog as he struggled to deal with the crippling, shameful betrayal he felt. He paced, even though all he wanted was to _run_ ; to run, to find a fast horse… to _escape_.

The glass door to his bedroom opened. John turned and found Teyla, wearing a shawl, stepping out to join him. Her whiskey-brown eyes were dark with anger, sorrow, and sympathy.

“Come in, John,” she invited, her voice low and quiet. “I’ve brought you up a glass of nice hot milk.”

John didn’t move for a few moments. Then, he crumpled; his shoulders curled forward even as he clung to the railing behind him. His face wrinkled into a harsh grimace as a sob of grief and pain strangled in his throat.

Instantly, Teyla moved to him. She caught him against her, holding him in a tight hug and let John hide his face against her hair. His long, lanky body shuddered against her petite frame. He made no further sound, but she could feel her hair growing damp and the sharp jerk of his shoulders.

“There,” she murmured, tears thick in her voice. She stroked his back and stood fast. “There, John. She isn’t _worth_ it, damn her black heart! She isn’t _worth_ it.”

The words were cold comfort, she knew, but it was all she could offer him even as she prayed silently that higher powers than she made Chaya pay for the harm she’d inflicted on a good man.

 

*~*~*~*


	6. ....Even if it's People You Love More Than Anything in the World.

Months later, as late autumn began to turn to winter, John walked along the empty beach near his house where he’d gone swimming earlier in the year. He was bundled up in his woolen cape, coat, scarf and leather gloves, warm and dry as he took his exercise.

As he walked past the wooden post that had ANNA SHEPPARD carved deeply into it, Jack trotting ahead of him, his gaze flickered out over the ocean as he recalled a small, excited voice saying, _"...and all the captains of all the ships at sea can look at me through spyglasses!"_

That led his mind to thoughts of ships and travel. Oh, not for the sake of travel alone; in fact, he’d rather avoid ships at all if possible. But he couldn’t stop thinking about horses and running. He’d always loved to ride horses. Whenever he got on a fast mover, he felt as though he were _flying_ ; as if he’d escaped earthly bounds and concerns. He’d always thought someday he might take up the reins, so to speak, of Sheppard Farms’ horse breeding program. But, no: he’d had a head for numbers and nothing would do for Patrick Sheppard but that his youngest son become a banker and make money hand over fist.

John sighed and shook his head, chasing away old history. His father had made plans, he hadn’t agreed with them, and that had been that: leading him to the army, to war, to civilian life, to Elizabeth, to here and now in Pugwash. He was his own man, with no one to say him yea or nay, and with extra income, he could actually begin a horse breeding program of his own – necessitating travel to acquire knowledge, news, and horses.

As he began to make plans, he thought he vaguely recalled someone talking about how the world is his; how he was free to indulge his own wants and needs. The moment was just beyond his mind’s eye, as if shrouded in the same fog that sometimes wreathed the cliffs of Gull Cottage.

Still, he smirked to himself; utterly pleased as hope and happiness once again filled his heart, doing much to erase the great amount of pain and despair that Chaya's betrayal had inflicted.

He hurried home, feeling tired; he wanted a nap before he began putting his plans onto paper. Discovering that his lover had been married had been a cruel blow. Finding out that his lust for her had not been natural, but a byproduct of a pheromone perfume, had nearly broken him. He’d thought – hoped – that his sexual need for Chaya had meant his occasional lust for another man’s touch had been a mere fluke. He’d since learned otherwise and it had galled him how easily he’d been manipulated into serving as her plaything. He had lost energy and weight in the last several weeks as depression stole his appetite, but he was slowly regaining his health.

Jack ran ahead of him and announced their return to Gull Cottage with excited yapping alerting Teyla, who opened the kitchen door to let them in.

"Where have you been?" she asked as she shut the door, and then turned to take the woolen cape, hat, and gloves that John handed her.

"Just walking."

"You've been doing a lot of walking lately." Seeing the sparkle in John's hazel-green eyes, she grinned. "It seems to have done you some good, too. Now, upstairs for a bit of shuteye before tea."

John sighed as they left the kitchen to go upstairs, Jack leading the way. "Supper, Teyla. For the last time, in North America, it's supper."

Teyla snorted and grinned at him. She took the arm he gallantly offered her and the two of them climbed the stairs to the upper floor.

As they started up the stairs, John said quietly, "Teyla, do you know what today is?"

"Wash day."

"Yes. But it's also exactly a year ago today that we came here and settled in for good. We walked up these stairs together, and then I hurt my finger on the window. Remember?"

"Yes."

"Then, I had a very strange dream."

"I remember you telling me about it," Teyla remarked as they entered John's bedroom, the dog making a beeline for the afghan atop the settee.

Sheppard's gaze followed Jack, flicking up to look at the wall above the settee where two portraits had once hung – but now, only Rodney McKay’s remained on the wall. He’d shredded the bathing costume portrait not long after returning home from that disastrous trip to Halifax.

"It was a very strange dream," John said softly as he walked over to stand before McKay's portrait, looking up at the handsome, somber man. "The first of many dreams."

Teyla nodded as she put away John’s outerwear, and then walked over to her friend. "Aye. Now, then, off with your suit."

John turned to her with a smirk. "Thank God I know you for the proper young woman that you are, Teyla, or I'd be worried." At his friend's snort, he added, "No, I believe I'll rest in the big chair."

"If you want," Teyla replied. As John settled into the chair, she lifted Jack from atop the afghan and set him back down a moment later before turning to spread the blanket over John's lap.

"I'll call you in an hour," she promised.

"Thank you, that’ll be just fine – because I have plans to make. What do you say to a bit of adventuring, Teyla?" Sheppard asked with a smile. “Gallivanting about in search of horses and the latest goings on about how to make the best of them?”

Teyla grinned back. "I say Sheppard Farms will not be best pleased with your success. I also say that Anna is going to be rather miffed if you don't invite her along with us."

John laughed and nodded. “Right enough! I’ll have to leave the two of you here most of the time – she has school, of course, and who else would I trust to look after her? But, when possible, the three of us will go off on whirlwind adventures across the continents.”

“That sounds right decent,” Teyla approved. “’Twill only make us appreciate our home all the more to return to it after roaming about.”

With that, she left him to nap.

Settling back, John drew his legs up and closed his eyes, tired enough to need the nap. He opened them a moment later when the ship’s clock on the mantle chimed the hour. A strange sense of déjà vu gripped him. He didn’t know why he felt so excited at the sound – as though he were expecting something or someone to appear. John sat up a little as he stared hard at the balcony door he'd closed for his nap at about the same time exactly one year ago.

He stared and stared, but nothing happened. There wasn’t so much as a twitch of movement from the curtains that covered the windowpanes on the balcony glass. John sank back into the chair, oddly disappointed and wondering why.

He cast a rueful smile at Jack, who was watching him. The dog’s tail was thumping in a stilted wag and his floppy ears were uplifted in a curious perk. John sighed, labeling himself as foolish, and then closed his eyes and went to sleep.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Twenty years passed after the bitter end of John’s dalliance with Chaya Sar. Fashions changed, society changed a little, and people changed even less. It made things easy for him as he worked on becoming a major contender in the horse breeding circuit. He traveled, taking Anna and Teyla with him when he could, and learned as much as he could of what was occurring in horse business all over the world. He hired Evan Lorne, formerly a Captain in the Army, to be his stable manager. The two of them worked well together – even after Lorne walked in on John and a male guest indulging in a roll in the hay.

John decided he’d learned enough and could really knuckle down to being a horse breeder when he came home to Gull Cottage after one trip and was informed that his little girl had become a woman biologically. John blinked as he realized Anna was twelve-years-old and he’d missed the last few years of her childhood. He was also startled to find out that Teyla had made the acquaintance of a gargantuan, beautiful young man named Ronon Dex. He worked as a fisherman during the fish season, but he was a carpenter and a poet in the off-season. Ronon was tall, muscular, and easily capable of ripping John in two should he protest Dex’s interest in Teyla, but John had no intention of doing so. He was happy for his friend and he knew of Dex’s reputation as a gentle man, but protective. In fact, he was so thrilled for Teyla’s good fortune in finding love that he insisted on paying for the wedding, throwing a huge party, and giving away the bride.

Not long after the wedding, Teyla announced she was going to have a child at the same time John received word from his brother that their father had passed away. What followed was that David came to visit, meeting his niece for the first time. He informed John that Patrick had deeply regretted cutting off his younger son, but his pride had been too great to allow for reconciliation. John had accepted this, not without resentment and sorrow for his own pride. He hadn’t wanted his father’s money, but he felt he should have at least attempted to make amends sooner, if only so his father would have known his son still loved him.

David had let it be known that he didn’t care for his father’s edicts. He respected that John had done well with his life thus far and had worked for what he’d wanted, and was proud that John had come so far. He was even willing to help John’s venture of Pegasus Farms. John had tried hard to not cry like a little girl in his relief at knowing that his brother still cared about him and wanted to be part of his life again. Thus began the reunion of the Sheppard families.

In late autumn of the year 1927, John walked along the beach near his house, wearing the latest style of men's suits. He was certainly glad he was comfortably set and could afford the newest fashions. He’d seen the way the economic wind had been blowing lately and had feared that soon, the stock market would crash and the world would be thrown into turmoil from the fallout. He’d prepared accordingly and had advised his friends and family to do the same, leaving him relatively unworried about their well-being and his own.

Walking along the sand, he passed the old wooden post with Anna's name carved on it. The post was leaning listlessly to the side, faded with age and exposure to high tides, wild weather, and sun. Her name was still there, as Mr. Scroggins had long ago promised it would be, and as these thoughts occurred to him, John smiled and reflected that it was nice to see that some things never changed.

He thought back to the year the name had been carved. Things had been different, then. He had stayed home much of that first year, struggling to make himself and his daughter financially stable, refusing Teyla’s kind-hearted offer of help from her independent money. But, he’d done it; stayed home, written that book about a wickedly curious curmudgeon of a scientist, and learned a few hard lessons along the way. He’d been young and a little restless, then. Now, he was in his late forties, getting ready to enter his fifties. His wayward, cowlick black hair had gone salt-and-pepper, with more salt than pepper beginning to appear. Jack was long gone, as was Daniel, the pup that had followed after. Angelica had died only a few years after John had moved to Nova Scotia. Eva was still alive, but they hadn't spoken for the last twenty years, and John couldn’t be unhappy about that. The only thing that had remained remotely the same was the fact that Teyla was still with him, cheering him up, bullying him about, and taking care of him as only Teyla could do.

As he strode along the path that led towards his front yard, he was startled out of his reverie by the honking of a horn and watched as a silver-gray car drove past. The automobile was different from the first motorcars he remembered. The cars of the 1920s exhibited design refinements such as balloon tires, pressed-steel wheels, and four-wheel brakes. Although assembly lines continued to bring the price of automobiles down, many cars in this time were one-of-a-kind vintage models, made to individual specifications. The 1927 Packard 426 Runabout Roadster that went past him featured a daringly lowered frame and a sleek cream-colored body, limiting the drag against the vehicle and making it seem like it was flying over the ground. John admired the nice efficiency of the design, and then focused on the people in the car.

“Papa!” came the happy cry from the young woman kneeling on the passenger seat, turned to look back at him and waving.

John’s mouth spread in a delighted smile and he lifted his arm in a return wave. “Hello, Anna!”

Hurrying his steps, ignoring the twinging of his knees, John headed for home. He walked into the arms of his waiting daughter, who stood beside the sleek silver car and was almost bouncing in place with excitement. The young man that stood beside her, John didn’t know, but he held himself with a military strictness and John could appreciate that.

“Anna, Sweetheart, it’s so good to see you!” John said, hugging his daughter tightly. She hugged him back, his ribs creaking at the strength of her grip, and then released him so they could lean back and look at each other.

He smiled. Anna Martha Angelica Sheppard looked so very much like her mother it was almost startling. Had her chestnut hair been styled a little differently, had she been wearing long skirts in Victorian fashion, John would have thought Elizabeth had returned to Earth.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and gently touched his daughter’s face. “So young and strong; so beautiful!”

Anna laughed. “The same can be said of you, Papa! Mucking about with horses seems to agree with you.”

“It’s all the horse liniment,” John teased. “It keeps my coat shiny.”

Anna laughed again while the young man beside her cracked a grin.

“Now, then, _Doctor_ Sheppard… what are you doing here, away from England? Aren’t you supposed to be badgering Cambridge into accepting that women are more than mere tools for child-bearing?”

“You’re quite right, Papa, however… I have a surprise for you,” Anna said, smiling at him mischievously.

John snorted. He looked at the young man at Anna’s side with a lifted eyebrow. “I take it this young man is your surprise?”

Anna smiled and threaded her arm through one of the sandy-haired man’s. “C’mere, Chuck: don’t be shy.”

The young man gamely stepped closer and extended a hand. “Major Sheppard, how do you do? It’s an honor to meet you, sir, after hearing the lengthy soliloquies from Anna about her wonderful father.”

John chuckled, liking the teasing from the young man and the warmth in his gaze when he glanced at Anna. He shook hands readily. “I’m well enough… Chuck, is it?”

Anna threaded her other arm through one of her father’s and began leading the two men gently toward the front door of the house.

“Well, his _real_ name is Sir Evelyn Anthony Peregrine Campbell,” she said, her tongue tripping neatly over the lilting names, “so of _course_ everyone calls him Chuck.” She paused for a breath. “And we’re thinking of getting engaged.”

John jerked to a halt and turned to face his daughter. “Anna!”

“I haven’t even asked her, yet,” Chuck said, smirking. “The way she keeps committing us, however, I suppose I’ll have to.”

“As if I haven’t seen you eyeing rings every time we go out on the town,” Anna said tartly, though her smile was sweet. “At any rate, Papa, we’ve come for your blessing… and we haven’t had tea.”

John rolled his eyes heavenward. “You’ve been infected. How lovely. Am I the only person in one-hundred miles of anywhere on the North American continent that knows to call it _supper?_ ”

“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee,” Anna dismissed, making her father and fiancée laugh. She led the way into the house. She waited until her father had stripped off his gloves and walking coat before catching hold of his wrist and tugging him toward the discreet kitchen door while waving Chuck towards the double doors to the living area. “Darling, you go on and wait for us in there while we help Teyla with the tea.”

“Well, if I’m not wanted,” Chuck teased, but then offered, “Are you certain there’s nothing I can do to help?”

“We’ll sing out if we need you,” Anna promised, and yanked her father into the kitchen.

“There’ll be two more for _supper_ , Teyla,” John laughed, stumbling into the kitchen while Teyla turned away from the stove.

“Miss Anna!” the still-beautiful Teyla cried, and hurried to her favorite Sheppard for a hug.

“Teyla!” Anna squealed, and fell into the other woman’s arms for a hug. Teyla had long been like a mother to her; she adored Teyla Emmagan Dex with all of her heart and soul. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! How is Ronon? And little Torren John?”

“Torren John is with his father, off to the village to get some extra supplies – for which I’m grateful, as now we’ll have just enough rather than a surplus I’d been fretting about,” Teyla replied, smiling.

“No surplus to worry about,” John remarked, leaning against a countertop and crossing his arms over his chest with a smile. “The look of that young man lurking in the living area… he can pack away a meal or three, I’m certain.”

“Who?” asked Teyla, but Anna turned to her father with a slightly nervous expression.

“Well? What do you think?” urged Anna.

John snorted. “Gracious God, child – you’ve hardly given me _time_ to think.” He shook his head. “I gather his name is Sir _Evelyn_ …”

“ _Sir_ Evelyn?” Teyla echoed, pouncing on that. “He is British?”

“…and you want to marry him,” John concluded.

Anna shot a quick grin at Teyla before focusing on her father again. “I met him at a dance in London, Papa. He’s a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy. You know my weakness for military men.”

“Lord, no – this is the first I’ve heard of it, thank anything that cares to listen,” John crabbed, and rolled his eyes at Teyla’s happy mutterings of Anna’s excellent taste in men of distinct nationality and her joy at being able to serve a visitor _tea_ and have them appreciate it.

Anna wrinkled her nose at her father. “Well, really, Papa! Of course any man I take notice of would have to measure up to _you_.”

“Hang about,” John ordered. “If you’re going to continue on like that, I’ll have to get my hip-waders and muck boots.”

Anna rolled her eyes and sighed. “ _Papa_ …”

“Don’t you heave at me, young lady. You’re a doctor of science; behave like it and let me have a moment to process all this.”

“Sorry, Papa; of course, take your time.”

John raised one arm up so he could tap a finger against his chin thoughtfully. Finally, he said, “You’re nearly twenty-seven, Anna. In the youthful years when _most_ young women concentrate on finding a man to settle down and make babies with, you went off and took the world by storm – demanding and receiving an education in science that has given more than one frail old fuddy-duddy heart failure at being shown up by a _female_. In that time, you’ve had scores of boyfriends, but have never shown any interest in settling down with one… until now. What do you _want_ me to say?”

“It does not matter what you say, John,” Teyla said, hefting a tray with a teapot, cups, saucers, cream pitcher and scones on it. “She’ll do as she likes – the same as you. She is her father’s daughter, after all.”

“Don’t you go making eyes at him, Teyla!” Anna mock-admonished, grinning.

“Methinks you are warning the wrong one in this room!” Teyla retorted, and left the kitchen with a smirk.

John sighed and rolled his eyes. “There goes Teyla with her jokes again. Where that woman picked up such a queer sense of humor, I’ll never know.”

Anna gave her father a strong look, but whatever she intended to say, she held it back to ask, “Are you happy for me?”

“Happy? I haven’t seen you glow like this since… since ever, come to think of it. You’re a strong young woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. You know what you deserve. You’d not be dragging Chuck across the ocean to present him to me like a prize trout if you weren’t _happy_.” John grinned when his daughter snickered. “So, yes, Sweetheart: I’m happy for you. I have nothing to worry about as far as you and Chuck are concerned.”

“I am; I really am happy,” Anna said. “He’s kind and generous and intelligent, and genuinely proud of everything I’ve accomplished. He’s… he isn’t hide-bound by tradition. He’s open to new ideas and new things. He’s told me that if _we_ choose to have children, that doesn’t mean either one of our careers will be suspended indefinitely. He fully intends to support me in my goals as much as I want to support him. We’ll be _partners_ , Papa; true partners in marriage.”

“Then, he sounds like the best possible mate for you, and I’m thrilled,” John replied, honestly glad for his daughter.

“Yes, well… it would mean living in England for the foreseeable future,” Anna hedged. “That would be the marring of the happiness. And I worry about you, all alone out here with only the Dexes for company… not that there’s anything wrong with _them_ , it’s just that they’re pretty much the _only_ company you keep!”

“Anna…”

“No, Papa, listen; I’m making a hash of this. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve spoken with Chuck about this and he agrees: you and Teyla and Ronon and Torren John are to come live with us!”

John went utterly still. After a few moments, he smiled a trifle sadly and shook his head as he said, “No, Sweetheart; I won’t.”

Anna blinked. “Papa…?”

“You can ask Teyla and Ronon if they want to come live with you. I certainly don’t _own_ them. I would miss them a little if they were to leave,” he joked, and then sighed. “Anna, this is my home and I love it.”

“But, Papa,” she whispered. “You’re _alone_. You’ve been alone for so long.”

“Sweetheart, it’s kind of you to worry about your old man, but… oh, how do I explain this?” John looked up at the ceiling, his mouth pursed as he considered the best words to use. Finally, he focused on his daughter again. “It is quite possible to be much more alone when surrounded by other people, than you are with just yourself – even if it’s people you love more than anything in the world.”

Anna blinked as tears stung her eyes and nodded as she understood.

John moved to stir the soup cooking in the pot on the stove. “I know that sounds rather mixed-up, but…”

“No, not a bit,” Anna said, moving to stand behind her father. She leaned against his long back, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. He settled a hand over hers and she smiled. “If you ever change your mind, Papa….”

“Thank you, Sweetheart, but I doubt I will,” John murmured. “I’m as in love with this house as you are with Chuck, and it’s been that way since I first set eyes on it. I love this house; I’m happiest here and here I shall stay until I die.”

“With Doctor McKay?” Anna asked, pulling away to go riffle through the refrigerator out of curiosity.

John went utterly still again. “What did you say?”

“With the ghost of Doctor McKay?” Anna repeated, carrying a wax paper-wrapped block of cheese over to a countertop in preparation for slicing.

John felt himself shiver as memories, long buried, swirled into his conscious thoughts. He turned to look at his daughter. “Anna, what on Earth are you talking about?”

Anna wrinkled her nose at him as she gave a tiny smile. “Oh, I knew Doctor McKay quite well. When I was a little girl – the first year we lived here, that is – he and I would have the most _wonderful_ talks.”

“You didn’t,” John whispered. In his mind, he half-remembered a dream in which he made a bargain with a snappish man to leave his daughter alone….

“Oh, it was all a game I made up to entertain myself, of course,” Anna murmured. “What little girl isn’t fascinated by the thought of a haunted house? And… I think I must have stumbled across some old papers of Doctor McKay’s – though I could never find them when I looked for them again. But, it was he that gave me the thought that I should take my fine mind off to college and impress the world with my brilliance. I suppose it was really myself talking me into doing so, but at the time, it seemed very real. And then, suddenly, he stopped coming to visit me. I think I was growing up; becoming more immersed in real world friendships with the village children… but oh, I grieved and grieved the loss of him. He was so quick with a sharp word, his wit so dry, and his sarcasm sharp enough to cut to the bone. I was _madly_ in love with him.”

She turned, then, and saw the look of shock and awe on her father’s face. She gasped, setting the plate of cheese she’d sliced down on the wood-block table with a quick thump.

“You saw him, too,” she breathed, delight rippling through her.

In an instant, John Sheppard’s expression shuttered and frosted against intrusion – even from his own daughter. He turned away to stir the soup again.

“No,” he growled, peevish. “No – not for years.”

“Then, you did see him at some point!” Anna declared. “Papa… did he haunt you?”

John shook his head; less denial of the question and more the denial of long-buried emotions and dreams. Surely, they _must_ have been the dreams of a lonely man!

“No, Sweetheart,” he replied, his voice steady through sheer determination. “Things like that can’t happen. It was only a dream.”

“The same dream for _both_ of us?” Anna challenged.

“Perhaps I set you off on them by telling you about mine.”

“Except that you never did, Papa. You never tell anyone anything unless there’s no other choice.”

John winced and turned to face his daughter. “Anna…”

She moved to hug him again. “Papa, no, it’s not a criticism; simply an observation.”

John sighed and hugged her tightly, resting his cheek atop her hair.

“Why are you discounting this, Papa?” Anna whispered. “You’ve never been so adamant against an idea before. You’ve always been open to ‘whatever might be’.”

“Perhaps because this feels different,” John replied, his voice low. “This feels… like I’m remembering dreams – and there’s no evidence to tell me otherwise.”

“Tell me,” Anna said, pulling back to look at her father earnestly. “Maybe if you sift the memories through me….”

John sighed and rubbed at his temples. After a few moments, he said, “I don’t remember the dreams clearly. It’s as if a fog has set up residence in my brain and I can only snatch bits and pieces. I remember moments of writing _In Search of Atlantis_ , but…”

“ _But_ , the terminology and the experiments are quite detailed for a man more suited to mathematics and the military!” Anna crowed. “ _Atlantis_ is still a widely read book. Many of my colleagues enjoy it tremendously for the sheer accuracy of terminology used and how easily they could see themselves in Doctor McKay’s place! When they asked how you knew what to write, I couldn’t tell them; they were shocked when I said you’d been a cavalry officer in the U.S. Army and a teacher of math at a school before coming to Pugwash. They insisted that only a man of science could have written the story as accurately.”

John frowned. “I…” He shook his head. “I’m trying to remember, Anna, but… I can’t.”

“Do you know what I think?” she asked, softly.

He lifted an eyebrow at her.

“I think he was real,” she said. “I think his spirit was here; that he dictated his life to you and you wrote it down. And I think you fell in love with him, too.”

In an instant, John stepped away from his daughter, moving toward the door that would lead out to the backyard.

“Papa, please!” she begged, scurrying after him.

John stopped, but he wouldn’t look at her. “What… you can’t… _how?_ ”

Anna hovered a hand over her father’s back. “Papa… it’s… I’ve known for a long time. I accidentally walked in on you and Cam back when he came to visit. I’d… I’d come down to get a glass of milk and… well.”

John, knowing precisely what he’d been doing in the kitchen with Cameron Mitchell, felt his face and ears burn with the heat of his blush. He knew he was bright red from utter mortification.

“No, Papa… don’t,” Anna said, and snuggled up against his back again. “Papa, _please_ ; please don’t fret. I don’t _care_ that you like men, too. Honestly, I don’t. You’ve always been a good man and a wonderful father. What does it matter that you prefer—?”

“Yes, thank you!” John snapped, and shuddered. “Anna, please…”

“Papa, I love you,” Anna said, her voice firm. “I loved you before I knew and I love you after I found out. Quite frankly, I’m _glad_ you’re homosexual.”

John flinched, and then whirled to face her. “You’re _what?_ ”

“Well, not counting my mother, your taste in women is frankly abysmal,” Anna retorted. “I know you made the attempt a few times to find a woman to settle with, but they all fizzled away – thank God. That Larrin creature… ugh! Oh, and of course, the wide-eyed and precious ‘Teer’ – honestly, what kind of woman _chooses_ that name? – who wanted you to follow her and her ideology even as she demanded intimacy from you. And let’s not forget _Chaya_. Ew.”

John clapped a hand over his face, utterly embarrassed. “ _Anna_ …”

Anna snorted. “Papa, she was a _slut_ and you know it. A slut, a slattern, a trollop, an adulteress…”

John burst out laughing, hastily muffling the sound. “Anna, stop! Stop. Please.”

She did so, but snapped her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “I’m just glad that you found out about her before it went too far. I mean… I know you planned to marry her, but I used to pray you wouldn’t. She was snide to me when you weren’t looking and utterly disdainful of Teyla for being _dark-skinned_.”

“What?” John snapped, outraged. “Why didn’t either of you _tell_ me?”

“Would it have done any good? Teyla made her displeasure clear, but you were over the moon and stars about Chaya. You had to find out for yourself what she was like.”

John sighed. “And so I did.” He smirked. “I saw her at a publisher’s party five years ago. She drank too much, cried, and when she tripped, her _wig_ went flying off. She’d gotten fat and _bald_ , and she was desperately lonely and near penniless. It seems her husband finally had enough and took the children away. After that, her life seemed to cave in around her as ‘Auntie Nettie’s’ popularity dried up and so did her own.”

“Clearly, word got ‘round that she was a loose woman,” Anna said primly.

“Apparently,” John agreed, “though no doing of my own.” He brushed his hands nervously along his suit jacket. “You… Anna? You really don’t mind?”

“Don’t be stupid, Papa,” she admonished. “You know I can’t abide stupidity.”

He laughed. “Yes, true. Just like—“ He blinked and his smile fell away. “Just like… Rodney.”

Anna smiled gently and said nothing as she took her father’s hand in hers.

John sighed and shook his head. “You never can tell, can you? Once, I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Chaya. Now…”

“You might be right,” Anna said, “that it was just a dream. For your sake, Papa, I hope it wasn’t; I hope Doctor McKay _did_ haunt this house, talking to us… talking to you. At least, that way, you’d have _something_ to look back on with happiness.”

John grinned and pulled his daughter in for another hug. He’d hugged more today than he had in the last twenty years.

“I _have_ been happy, Sweetheart,” he said. “I just wasn’t meant to have _that_ kind of happiness. I’ll admit: a few times, I missed intimate companionship; have been a little lonely. But, I’ve had really great compensations.” He pecked a kiss onto Anna’s cheek, careful not to smudge any make-up. “I’ve had you; the love of my life – and now there’s Chuck to go along with you, because I can tell he’s the one for you. And, of course, there’s Teyla; good ol’ Teyla, my eternal friend and surrogate mother. Do you know, she still sometimes wipes my face for me?”

“Perhaps if you didn’t do a slapdash job of it…” Anna teased, and squealed as she quickly moved out of pinching range.

“Cheeky!” John teased back. He smirked and shook his head. “There’s you, there’s Chuck, there’s Teyla and Ronon and Torren John. There’s this house; a place of my own that I fell desperately in love with. There’s many fine memories – and I’m writing my own memoir, have I told you?”

Anna lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “No, you haven’t, Papa. That is, _before_ now.”

“There you have it, then. They’re messy scribbles, jotted down as I recall them, but they’re on their way to becoming a book.”

“Not as racy as _Atlantis_ , though?”

“I don’t see how it could be,” John replied, smirking. “I never had a Sir Richard Burton to take me boozing it up in a male brothel.”

“More’s the pity!” Anna teased, and dashed out of the kitchen when her father threw a tea towel at her.

Several minutes later, John welcomed Chuck to the family. He gave his blessing for the marriage to proceed and John was then treated to the sight of his daughter in love as she looked at her husband-to-be with hazel green eyes that were warm and shining with happiness.

 

*~*~*~*


	7. I've Found Atlantis.

More time passed; years going by without fail, sliding effortlessly one into another.

Anna and Chuck were married and had two children: Eliza Teyla Barrett Campbell and Everett Ronon John Campbell. The children were named so because of deep family affection, but in little Everett’s case, it was also a means of honoring Ronon Dex – lost at sea during a powerful storm that sank the fishing boat he’d been on, taking every last crewmember into the depths. John was there to help Teyla and Torren John through their grief.

The years went by. Fashions changed again, two world wars happened, the kids grew up, and John grew old with Teyla matching him gray hair for gray hair. He decided to retire from the very successful horse business, handing over the reins of Pegasus Farms to Chuck when Sir Campbell retired from the Royal Navy and moved his family across the Atlantic ocean to Pugwash. Anna was worried about being too far away from her father and the kids wanted to spend time with their Grandpa Johnny and TJ.

Without horse-related nonsense to fill his time, John settled in to writing his memoir fully. It took a few years, but he managed to get it done and was pleased that his story was almost as successful as _In Search of Atlantis_ had been.

Finally, in the year 1960….

 

*~*~*

 

John leaned against the windows of the balcony as he stood outside, looking into the dense evening fog. He was dressed for the evening in his favorite pajamas and thick robe, with fluffy slippers to protect him from the cold that his arthritic old body so sensitive to. He was restless; something was going to happen soon… he could feel it. Something that, oddly enough, he felt as though he had been waiting for his entire life. When the foghorn from a passing ship sounded, he stepped forward, looking harder into the night as a memory nudged at his mind. He could hear himself describing what the sound of a foghorn resembled; telling it to someone, but he couldn’t quite recall who.

So intent was he on peering into the fog, on trying to recall who the other person in the memory had been, that he was startled when Teyla's age-hoarsened voice suddenly hissed from the doorway, "You come in here!"

Cross with himself at being caught unaware, John grimaced at his old friend and slowly shuffled inside. Once in his bedroom, he sighed quietly with pleasure at the warmth that immediately wrapped around him, helping to ease the ache of his arthritic old bones and joints.

"Are you _trying_ to catch your death?" Teyla groused, shutting the balcony door, stepping up behind her friend. "What were you doing out there?"

"I don't know," John murmured, still feeling disconnected, searching… lost, like the foghorn.

"You know what the doctor said."

"Oh, piss on the doctor!" John snapped, and shuffled further into the room toward his comfy old armchair. "Carson's an old woman."

"Yes, and you aren't a young one anymore," Teyla sniped back, carefully balancing the glass of hot milk she carried in one old, withered hand.

Sheppard ignored her as he pulled a note from the pocket of his robe. "Here's a letter from Anna," he said with a smile.

“Oh, aye?” Teyla set the glass of milk down on the small table by the chair. She then moved to the large, comfy bed and pulled back the covers to stuff a hot water bottle between the sheets. “What does my girl have to say?”

“She says that Everett Ronon’s quite excited about joining the United States Air Force and that Eliza Teyla dropped a bombshell on them while they were in Colorado the same way Anna did to me about Chuck.” John grinned when Teyla turned to look at him with wide eyes. “Seems Eliza’s engaged to the captain of a Trans-Atlantic flight. Anna says that once she recovered, she was happy about it and says it runs in the family. Apparently, we’ll all have a party when they return to Pugwash in a few days, just in time for Torren John’s ship to get in.”

“Airplanes,” Teyla muttered. “Not in _my_ family, they don’t; we keep our feet on the ground! I suppose she means dashing officers: first Miss Elizabeth, then Anna, and now Eliza.”

John snorted and dropped the letter onto the small table. Stiffly, he settled down into the chair, his body relaxing bit by bit; creaking and popping with dull aches and pains – all except his left arm. _That_ had been suffering a nagging pain all day. The sick-to-his-stomach feeling and the periods of lightheadedness hadn’t done much to help his mood, either. As he settled into his chair, feeling tired and short of breath, John closed his eyes briefly and tried to calm his heavily thumping heart.

“Well, if we’re to celebrate with our loved ones, we’ll need to be rested up for it,” Teyla said, moving back toward him. John opened his eyes to look at her and, for a moment, was shocked to see steel gray hair and wrinkles instead of smooth-skinned and youthful beauty. “Come now, John; drink your milk.”

“Not… not now, Teyla,” he argued, his voice fatigued. “I’m so tired and my arm is paining me. I just want to rest a moment.”

“No wonder you’re pained, standing about in that heavy fog as you were,” she chided gently. “The milk is hot, John; it will warm you. Drink it up, now.”

“I don’t want to!” he snapped, irritated. “Stop bossing me, Teyla! I don’t want any hot milk right now.”

“Don’t get in a state, John.”

“I’m not…” He paused to catch his breath for a moment or two and scowled at how weak he felt. “I’m not in a _state_ , woman! I’m simply _tired_ and I want to be left alone!” He turned his face away. “Bossing me…”

Teyla straightened, pulling her shawl closer about her torso with wounded dignity.

“Very well,” she said quietly, her feelings evidently hurt. “Bossing, I never intended. I merely brought the milk for your own good.”

She walked away, moving stiffly. Her knees and hips creaked with each step, but she kept her spine as straight as could be. When she left the room, she closed the door quietly.

John sighed and winced. The soft sound of the door closing and Teyla’s fading footsteps had been worse than had she slammed the door and stomped away. Her actions in response to his own had, rightly, illuminated his bad behavior. He grimaced, feeling bad for hurting her feelings. He knew she’d only had his best interests at heart – as always.

“Far too good to me,” John murmured to himself. He glanced at the glass of milk sitting on the table. He _really_ didn’t want any – he felt so nauseous! Still, maybe a few sips would be enough to let her know he hadn’t meant any harm and was sorry for his harsh tone.

Reaching out, he curled his hand around the tall glass. He let out a soft, shocked breath when he tried to lift the glass and couldn’t; it was simply too heavy.

“Ridiculous,” he said with hardly any breath, and forced a surge of strength into his arm.

He lifted the glass, ignoring the way his hand shook with the weight of it. He sipped the milk, paused, took another sip, and then lowered his arm to the right bracer of the chair and closed his eyes. He’d rest for a few moments; only a few, and then he’d drink some more of the milk.

He was just so _tired_ ….

When John’s heart gave a powerful lurch and then stopped, death was instantaneous. His hand clutched once around the glass of milk, and then went limp as all life left his body. Immediately, the heavy glass tipped, the warm liquid spilling out before the glass fell to the floor with a clatter.

As the ship’s clock on the mantelpiece began to ding the midnight hour, a powerful presence filled the room as Rodney McKay arrived to stand before the withered old body in the chair.

“And now, you’ll never be tired again,” he said, his voice redolent with satisfaction. Smiling, he held out his hands, palms up, toward the body. “Come, John; come with me, my dear. I’ve found Atlantis.”

Hands lifted up; strong and square with long and supple fingers. They settled firmly into Rodney’s hands. McKay closed his own elegant fingers around hands he’d waited sixty years to touch and pulled.

John Sheppard came up out of the chair, looking down the scant half-inch of height difference into Rodney’s eyes. John was once again the young, beautiful man he’d been when he had first arrived at Gull Cottage. He wore his favorite casual suit from those long ago turn-of-the-century days. His hair was a mass of black cowlicks and tiny crow’s feet wrinkled the corners of his eyes. His cheekbones were covered by smooth skin dusted with black stubble. His lips were full and soft, curved into an affectionate smile as his hazel green eyes looked at Rodney with so much love that words were unneeded between them.

When he bent, Rodney readily lifted his chin to meet him. Their mouths touched, pressing together in a gentle, chaste kiss before they moved to touch their foreheads together, content simply to have this much between them for a moment.

Finally, John lifted his head away from Rodney’s and grinned. “Atlantis?”

Rodney grinned back, his crooked mouth stretched in an endearing smirk of pleasure. “Atlantis.”

He threaded the fingers of his right hand with John’s left and turned to lead him to the bedroom door. It opened without a touch to let them pass through. On the threshold, John paused and Rodney stopped at the tug of their joined hands. He held his peace, understanding John’s need to take one last look at the room that had been a haven for him in the last sixty years, in the house he’d loved so much.

John’s gaze swept over the bed he’d never sleep in again. His gaze moved to the fog-shrouded balcony, the brass telescope gleaming in the light from the single electric lamp that lit the room. Rodney’s old portrait sat dark and dull on the wall, a newly knitted lap-throw tossed across the settee, waiting to be tucked over someone’s legs. His gaze fell upon the withered body sitting inert in the chair, cooling and limp in death.

Without a word, he turned his back upon it all. He tightened his hand around Rodney’s and smiled. As good as his life had been, John finally felt truly content now in the first hour of his death.

He followed the scientist down the stairs, relishing the contact between them. With death, all memory had come back to him of the year he’d spent in the ghost’s company. He recalled how they’d not been able to touch, no matter how badly he’d wanted to be touched by Rodney; to touch the ghost in return. He knew why Rodney had let him go. He understood completely why Rodney had done so and was sweetened by the other man’s generosity, but now… well, now John knew that he would never consent to being parted from Rodney again.

They descended the stairs to the main entry way, but John paused as an old woman moved toward the stairs. He watched as Teyla clutched her shawl in one hand, clutched the banister with the other, and began the slow process of climbing the stairs on her age-weakened legs.

“Teyla…” John began, but she kept going – unable to hear him, unaware that his spirit was there.

Rodney shook their joined hands lightly. When John turned to him, the other man smiled and said, “She’ll find Atlantis, too. They all will.”

Relieved, happy that he’d see his friend again eventually, John let go of his former life entirely.

Side by side with Rodney McKay, John Sheppard walked out of the front door of Gull Cottage. Instead of heavy fog and a cold autumn evening, he walked out into the vastness of space itself. Stars burned bright and brilliant all around; galaxies spun small and large in different sections of darkness. Far ahead of them, a bright spot of light flared and twinkled, and John was almost certain he heard someone or something calling to him.

 _Atlantis_ , he thought, knowing that’s what it must be.

 _Atlantis_ , agreed Rodney’s voice, though the man’s mouth hadn’t moved.

Grinning at each other, the two men walked hand-in-hand towards Atlantis as the door to Gull Cottage closed behind them forever.

 

The End


End file.
